I Try to Be Someone
by RoyalNiffler
Summary: Attending college a thousand miles away from Ohio, Blaine is trying to find an identity that doesn't attach him to the painful past. His roommate is Kurt, who Blaine used to compete against in high school show choir. Can Kurt and Blaine help each other learn to find new dreams and ambitions even without a foolproof Show Choir Rule Book to spell it out for them?
1. I Have to be Blaine Anderson

**Chapter One: I have to Be Blaine Anderson**

Don't you ever feel like there's just an uncomfortably large amount of future out there?

I mean, it's like… if the average life expectancy of a American male is 79, and I'm 21, then theoretically I still have 58 years left.

I have to be Blaine Anderson for another 58 years.

58 years is a long time to have to keep being someone you don't like very much.

And I really don't even know when it was that I stopped liking myself. There was a time when I thought I was just the greatest guy there was.

I keep getting told that being young is a blessing, but I notice that it's never young people who see it that way?

How are you supposed to feel blessed to be young when there is all of this heavy, overwhelming future looming over you? How am I supposed to fill up all of that future when I'm… me? I mean, just really honestly, I don't think I'm exciting enough to keep myself interested in 63 more years of life.

Then again, it's probably too soon to tell.

Then again, I'm probably being melodramatic.

I mean, obviously I'm being melodramatic. That's my thing. Angst is my thing. Which is probably why I've fucked up my life so much.

Actually, it's why I perceive my life as being fucked up when really it isn't at all.

Everything is changing today, and I should be excited. I have made an important choice, and it should feel like a step forward.

It _is_ a step forward.

But somehow taking a step forward just reminds me of all of how much space there is in front of me—all of the other steps I'm going to have to take before I cross it all—and it's freaking me out.

Honestly, I'm not really as depressed as I sometimes try to convince myself I am. I'm leaving the city that broke me—New York—and I'm going somewhere that has the potential to heal me—Avonroy. I'm giving up on a dream I never really wanted—performing—and I'm chasing a dream that I don't really trust—writing. I'm making a change for the sake of change, and change has to be better than what life is now.

Because maybe once everything changes, I can find something to care about enough to distract myself from myself and all of this future.

Everything changes today, and if my head would just stop feeling wiggly for like thirty seconds, maybe I could figure out if I'm excited about change or it's just exhausting.

* * *

**_Author's Note: _**

_This is an AU story in which Kurt never transferred to Dalton (Also a completely different universe from my fic All the Words We'd Sing)_

_Blaine and Kurt only ever knew each other as competitors in rival glee clubs. They had a few brief flirtations, but they never dated or got to know each other very well._

_Now it's five years later-Blaine is 21 and Kurt is 22._

_They've both been struggling to figure out what they want from the world, they've both experienced failure, and they're both in very different places than what they'd envisioned while in high school._

_This story will explore (from Blaine's POV) what happens when they find themselves once again on parallel life paths-attending a remote fine arts college called Avonroy and trying to find faith in dreams they don't really understand._


	2. I'm Going to see if I'm a Writer

**Chapter Two: I'm Going to see if I'm a Writer.**

I moved from Westerville, Ohio to New York City, New York when I was seventeen years old and too stupid to realize that I had more important things to care about than dreams I didn't even understand.

Now I'm 21 and admittedly still pretty stupid, but the things I should have cared about three years ago are gone, and I can't even remember what my dreams used to be. So I'm moving from New York City, New York to Avonroy, Montana to try to find new things to care and dream about.

The Avonroy Academy of the Arts is a small university on the side of a mountain, in a remote part of Montana. It tries to market itself as a quiet retreat of creative community, where artists can come to share energies with other artists and bravely quest for self-actualization or some shit like that.

I'm not saying that I don't crave self-actualization and community and all that, but that's not really why I decided to come to Avonroy. As far as I'm concerned, it's a place a million miles from anything I've ever known, where I can isolate myself from whatever it is about the life I have no that pisses me off so much. It could be a place where I find some sort of peace and clarity, but mostly I'm just hoping that it's a place where I can start the fuck over.

Also, my mother was an Avonroy alumnus, so there's that.

I don't know how to explain the restless, anxious, directionless way that being 21 and lonely make me feel, but I have a feeling it's pretty universal. What isn't so universal maybe is that I've got a lot of time, a lot of money, and very few commitments. That combination is really dangerous-being a lonely, rich, and bored 21 year old dude in New York City. It makes it really easy for me to make really stupid choices and end really miserable.

I've made those stupid choices and I've ended up miserable.

Okay, I know I'm being very ambiguous.

I'm on a plane, flying to Montana. In a few days, I will start classes in the creative writing program that I practically ripped my soul apart to get accepted into. I'm going to see if I'm a writer. And if you'd told me a year ago that this is where I'd be right now, I'd have laughed in your face.

I spent my entire life until about a year ago convincing myself that I was going to be a very famous performer, and I destroyed my family and lost all of my friends trying to chase that dream, only to realize that it was a cowardly dream that I didn't really want.

Writing is a dream so challenging and outside my comfort zone that pursuing it makes me feel and think and fear in ways that nothing else does. And when everything is fucked up and numb because my mother is dead and everyone knows it's my fault, I need to feel those things.

All I really know I'm on a plane to Avonroy to start a life I might not even want, and I feel hopeful and clear-headed for the first time in several years.


	3. I Can't Quite Remember

**Chapter Three: I Can't Quite Remember**

The village of Avonroy is too remote for any public transit to venture out to, so the Academy arranges a special van that runs from the airport in Kalispell to the dorms at Avonroy just for students arriving for the start of term. My flight lands just in time to meet it, and I end up crammed in the backseat against the window with a group of loudly laughing guys who seem to all already know each other and who ignore me entirely.

There was once a time when being ignored would have infuriated me, but I don't think anyone abandons Broadway dreams in NYC for writing dreams in the middle of nowhere if they're not more than ready to be invisible once and for all.

So I tune out the conversation in the van and stare out the window instead.

This is a stupidly beautiful part of the world. It's mountainous and forested and just a completely different version of nowhere than Ohio is.

As hard as I tried to be the kind of person who loves the big city, somewhere deep inside I'll always be the kid from the country who can't quite relax until the nature to concrete ratio tilts to the nature side.

We pass through the village of Avonroy, which is nestled in the bottom of the valley. The Academy is another fifteen minutes away, around a lake and up a mountain, over a rocky and winding road that seems to have been carved into the mountain with a shovel.

The driver parks in the middle of campus, and I find myself suddenly standing in the middle of the most beautiful place I've ever been.

There's deep red-rock canyon slicing between wood and glass buildings and ancient cedars. All of the buildings are connected by a wooden boardwalk, leaving the forest floor below natural and littered with fallen wood and seedling trees. There's a thundering waterfall just beyond the last building with a path carved in the stone along beside it leading down to the blue-green lake below.

You can't see any sign of civilization beyond the buildings of the school. And even though I'd seen pictures of the campus before I came here, the beauty of the whole place still makes me a little dizzy.

I get my dorm number and key from the volunteers at a table beside one of the boardwalks, and make my way to my room. A wide boardwalk splits into a sort of Y formation, and long buildings line each side of each prong of the boardwalk. Doors to the dorm rooms open right onto the boardwalk.

My room is right at the end of the westernmost building, and it's already unlocked as I approach it, lugging my suitcase behind me.

I know that I'm going to have a roommate, which isn't a new experience for me. I lived in dorms for three years of high school at Dalton Academy before I graduated, and for two years of college at NYU before I dropped out. I'm used to living with other people, and I'm not the kind of guy who people tend to dislike, so it's always gone smoothly in the past.

Still, I'm nervous to meet my roommate here at Avonroy. More nervous than I've ever been to meet a roommate before. I don't know if it's because I'm hoping for someone who will become my best friend for the rest of my life and who will empathize with my motives for coming here, or if it's because I'm hoping for someone who will leave me alone.

Anyway, I drag my suitcase through the already open door, hoping that the social skills I've barely used since Mom died are still buried inside me somewhere so that I can make a good impression.

The room has high, raftered ceilings, and a huge window overlooking the valley. The beds are lofted high in the rafters, with desks and drawers and shelves beneath them. There's a door in the corner that I assume leads to our bathroom, and a tall, slender, brunette guy arranging an attractive gold and purple rug across the floor.

I stand at the door, absorbing the room and allowing him to spread out his run without my feet getting in the way. Whoever this guy is, he's got a flair for interior decorating. The rug brightens up the whole room.

"Looks good," I say, dropping my suitcase and stepping forward to announce my presence.

My new roommate straightens up hastily and turns to fast me. He's excessively good-looking and well-dressed, and when his eyes meet mine, I feel a tug of time beneath my stomach, as I'm momentarily transported backwards five years to Ohio, when those same eyes met mine in some blurry, undefined place I can't quite remember.


	4. I Came for the Reinventing Bullshit

**Chapter Four: I Came for the Reinventing Bullshit.**

I blink and I'm back in the dorm room, shaking away Ohio as I mirror my roommate's motion for a handshake. "You're my roommate?" he asks, narrowing his eyes as he studies my face.

He has this poised, impeccably timed rhythm about his motion and speech that pulls me and makes me feel like things are moving in slow motion.

I say, "Yes. I'm Blaine Anderson."

He nods, glancing me over approvingly. "I'm Kurt Hummel. I know I've seen you around before-what year are you in?"

My stomach flutters. I shake my head. "I'm starting my first year. If we've met before, it wasn't here."

Shrugging, Kurt says, "My mistake. You look familiar."

He looks familiar to me too, but I can't place it. Kurt Hummel. The name is strong and full of character, but it's not attached to anything in my memory.

And yet when I look at him, I can't shake the feeling that we knew each other in Ohio.

I don't know how I feel about someone from my past, as vague as the connection may be, appearing in my Start Over.

Kurt's phone rings before can say anything further, and he gives me an apologetic look and steps out onto the boardwalk to take his call.

I look around the room, trying to imagine it being home.

Admittedly, it's been a long time since 'home' really meant anything to me.

I pull my suitcase over to the side of the room that Kurt hasn't already claimed.

Since the whole point of Avonroy was to start over, I didn't really pack very much from my old life. I've got most of it put onto shelves and into drawers before Kurt even gets off the phone.

"Sorry about that," Kurt says when he comes back into the room, "A bunch of my friends are renting a house down in the village, but none of them are flying in until tomorrow, so I've got to go down and pick up the key before the landlord goes on vacation tonight."

I don't know why the idea of him leaving annoys me, but it does. "Oh," I say, "Cool. I'll see you later tonight?"

Kurt nods, and then catches my eye. His expression shifts ever so slightly. "Do you want to join me? There's not much to do on campus today. I'll show you around town. Not that there's much to see there either."

And again, I don't know why, but the idea of tagging along with him like a lost puppy annoys me too. Still, I can't think of anything I would do otherwise, so I agree. Five minutes later, I find myself in Kurt Hummel's car, winding our way back down the mountain.

"So I take it you're not new here?" I ask him.

Shaking his head, Kurt says, "I'm in my second year. But trust me, it only takes about half an hour to learn your way around this part of the world."

Avonroy is a touristy sort of place with more spas and hotels and restaurants than houses. Kurt tells me, "There're really only about 300 permanent residents. But during the school year, there's always a bunch of students from the Academy renting, and then there are another 500 hotel rooms that are usually full. So there're always loads of people around."

I wonder what it would be like to grow up in a place like this. I think it must be pretty strange to be a local in a place where locals are the minority.

We stop at a cute little house on the edge of the village, and Kurt picks up a key from an older woman at the door. He has an easygoing, comfortable way of talking to people that I admire. People always tell me that I'm charming, but it takes careful calculation and caution to achieve the charisma everyone assumes come easy for me.

As I watch Kurt chatting with his friends' landlord, I can see how genuine and unguarded he is, and it makes me want to impress him.

I thought my impulse to impress people died a long time ago.

"Want to get some dinner before we head back up?" Kurt asks when he gets back in the car, "I don't even know if the cafeteria is open yet. We should get to know each other."

"Sure," I say, "I'm starving."

So Kurt takes me to a restaurant called Vickia's, and we both order the same pasta dish and laugh about it.

"So where're you from?" Kurt asks me once we've stopped discussing our favourite spinach/red pepper/cheese combinations.

I hesitate, then say, "I've been living in Manhattan."

It's hard to know why, but I'm afraid to bring up Ohio. I can't shake the certainty that we knew each other there. Why that makes me nervous, I'm not really sure.

"Oh cool," says Kurt, "I lived there for a few years after high school. Maybe that's why I thought I recognised you. What were you doing there?"

So maybe it wasn't Ohio after all.

I shrug. "Lately almost nothing," I say, "But I was at NYU for a couple of years."

Nodding Kurt says, "Okay. Hmm. We could have run into each other I guess. I made some feeble attempts at acting and music and stuff when I was out there. But I'm from Ohio, originally."

And there it is. My eyes flick away from my pasta and onto his face. "Ohio? Whereabouts?"

He says, "Lima."

My heart sinks a little. "Shit," I say, "I grew up in Westerville."

Kurt sets down his fork and swallows his pasta quickly, eyes widening suddenly. "Well fuck," he says, "I know who you are. You're the kid from the Warblers, aren't you?"

I feel that tug under my stomach again as I find myself sixteen years old and sitting in an auditorium, watching Kurt Hummel sing like an angel with his show choir up on the stage.

My jaw drops a little, and I point at him. "Yes! New Directions! You guys kicked our asses two years in a row."

Kurt looks delighted. "Jesus Christ," he says, grinning in a way that somehow makes him look six years younger, "I haven't thought about show choir in ages. The Dalton Academy Warblers. You guys were intoxicating."

It's not hard to be intoxicating when you're young, talented, self-important, and dressed in matching blazers. Those were the days. The best fucking days.

"And you guys were inspiring as fuck. You won Nationals the year before we did, right?"

Kurt nods. "My senior year. Holy shit; that was five years ago. Unbelievable."

"Unbelievable," I agree.

Picking up his fork again, Kurt asks, "Do you ever miss it? High school show choir, I mean?"

Shivering, I say, "I don't know if 'miss' is the right word."

He laughs thoughtfully. "I know what you mean," he says, "I don't think you could pay me enough to go back. But fuck, didn't it just feel like the most important thing in the world when we were doing it?"

I lean back in my chair a little, letting myself remember the ecstasy of performing with my best friends. "I honestly think that a part of my soul is trapped on that Nationals stage for eternity anyway."

Eyes locked into mine, Kurt nods slowly. "Absolutely," he says, after a pause. "Nothing really compares, does it?"

I break eye contact and shake my head. "Meanwhile, the rest of my soul is so far away from that stage that I can barely process that we're one and the same."

He nods. "Tell me about it. It's amazing how stupid it all seems after you grow up a little."

"Not stupid," I say quickly, "Not for me anyway. But unimportant? Maybe."

Kurt nods, "Yeah, stupid was the wrong word. And I don't think unimportant is right either. Everything was just so… compartmentalized back then. You had to win the trophy and pass your classes and get into college."

I say, "And then it was over and the lines between success and failure were too blurry for us to know what we were supposed to care about anymore?"

Kurt frowns, looking deeply thoughtful. "Jesus, Blaine," he says, "That's a depressing thought. Accurate, but depressing."

I feel my cheeks flushing a little, and I say quickly, "Sorry. I just meant that it was easy to know what the goal was with show choir. I haven't found it as to know what I want since then."

Kurt nods. "Yeah. I hear you. What made you come to Avonroy, anyway?"

I shrug. "I needed a change. Needed to get out of the city."

"But why Avonroy?"

I say, "I dunno. Isn't Avonroy supposed to the place where artists come to reinvent themselves or some bullshit?" I shake my head, and say, "My mother studied here years ago, so I guess I just felt connected to the place."

Kurt nods. "Yeah. I hear you. I came for the reinventing bullshit too."

I grin and we both eat our pasta quietly for a few moments. I can only assume that he's thinking about Ohio too.


	5. Things Change

**Chapter Five: Things Change**

Kurt and I stay at that restaurant for hours, sharing our somewhat overlapping experiences of Ohio show choir and laughing frequently.

I haven't felt so natural and honest in ages and ages.

Much later, when I'm lying in my new bed in my new dorm room across from my new friend, it makes me uneasy just how at ease Kurt made me feel.

Why does it take an unexpected blast from the past to make me feel human?

So much of Ohio is associated with weird, guilty sadness and horrible, nerve-rattling panic that I usually block out the good stuff, like Dalton Academy and the camaraderie of my show choir, the Warblers, and the ecstasy of collective triumph after winning show choir nationals.

Talking about the Warblers with Kurt was easier than it's been to talk to anyone about anything in a very long time, and it's making me question to wisdom of giving up on performing.

But I gave up on performing because performing isn't an emotionally viable option for me at this point in my life. I have to respect myself enough to know that I made that choice for a reason.

So maybe it's not the memories of performing that made talking to Kurt so easy. Maybe it's just the idea that Kurt represents a time in my life when I was popular and confident and happy. When talking to people wasn't painful.

Or maybe it's just Kurt himself. Because Kurt is really something special. I remember thinking so five years ago, and meeting him again today only confirms it. He's confident, intelligent, and unlike anyone I've ever met.

There are so many people who are exactly the same as other people that it's really important to pay attention to the people who are like no-one else.

Kurt shows me around campus in the morning, starting with breakfast in the cafeteria and ending with a walk down the side of the waterfall and to the lake.

He's funny and sweet and never runs out of things to say. After spending all night thinking about him and about Ohio and about how out-of-practice I am at having a social life, I feel a little awkward around him. I try to spin my awkwardness into some kind of suave reservation, and from his behavior towards me, I think it's working.

People are starting to pour onto campus now, since orientation is this afternoon and there's a start-of-term party tonight in the student lounge. There's an exciting energy pulsing through the whole place as more and more people congregate and connect in this beautiful, remote little place.

"I think theatre arts orientation will be in the auditorium," Kurt says as we sit by the lake, watching other students exploring the campus around us, "Which is in the south building. I'll show you how to get there if you want."

I blink. "Oh," I say, "No, I'm not in theatre. I'm here for creative writing."

Which is the last thing anyone who's ever known me would expect me to say.

Kurt looks taken aback and delighted at the same time. "Creative writing?" he asks, "Oh my goodness. I just assumed you'd still be performing." He looks me over once in curiosity, "Writing? Really?"

I feel defensive, even though I shouldn't be. "Yeah," I say, "High school was a long time ago. Things change."

He nods quickly. "For sure. I get that. You just… well, good for you. Really."

It's hard not to question your decisions when they shock a person who barely knows who you are.

But I didn't drop out of musical theatre at NYU because I was bored. I did it because I couldn't function in that environment anymore.

"So I take it you're doing theatre?"

Kurt shakes his head. "No. No, you're right. Things change. I'm studying design."

I grin. Somehow knowing that I'm not the only Ohio show choir superstar who chased the stars and ended up somewhere unexpected is very comforting.


	6. A Socially Functional Adult

**Chapter Six: A Socially Functional Adult**

Orientation lasts all afternoon and gets me pumped about really diving into the writing thing. I listen intently to every word that is said, and take every word of it to heart.

I never felt this terrified or excited about theatre.

I meet a lot of my fellow first-year writing students, including a girl named Holly Keys, who has gorgeous, waist-length, curly, fire-red hair and a quiet, all-observing mannerism that I connect with instantly.

"I used to write sto ries about people with fucked up lives," she tells me, when the orientation facilitator asks us to speak to someone sitting near us about why we chose to study writing at Avonroy, "And then I fucked up my own life and quit writing for years. But I'm back at it now. We'll see how it goes."

Grinning, I tell her, "I spent my entire life pretending that I didn't want to take writing seriously until one day I realized that it was the only thing that made any sense. So here I am."

She smiles and gives me an approving nod. "I feel like there are intriguing stories to be written behind both of our answers," she says.

I laugh and can't help but agree.

Later, I meet Kurt at the start-of-term party in the student lounge, and he introduces me to a bunch of his friends. They all have too many inside jokes and too much catching up to do after the summer to pay much attention to me, so I stand awkwardly near Kurt, listening and trying to remember how to be a socially functional adult.

Kurt's friends go outside for cigarettes after a while, leaving me and Kurt sitting on a couch in the corner.

"You don't smoke, huh?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Nah," I say, "I get asthma."

He nods. "Well, I'm glad you don't. Seems like everyone here does. It grosses me out."

I grin, but it's hard to be proud of not having a nicotine addiction when you can barely remember half of your life because of all of the narcotics you've consumed.

"Your friends seem cool," I say.

Kurt nods distractedly as his phone vibrates. "Yeah," he says, checking his text message and grinning suddenly, "And Jeremy's finally here. I think you'll like him."

"Jeremy?" I ask.

He nods. "My boyfriend. His uncle just dropped him off. I'm gunna go say hi, okay?"

I know I shouldn't be upset by the fact that Kurt has a boyfriend, but I am. "Your boyfriend?"

Grin faltering, Kurt catches my eye, and says, "Uh… yeah. That doesn't bother you, does it?"

I shake my head quickly, feeling myself blush. "No, of course not. You go meet him. I'll see you later."

And I watch him hurrying away, seriously annoyed at myself for how much it pisses me off that Kurt has a boyfriend.

The party migrates down to the lake, where I meet Jeremy-he's tall and dark-haired and very good-looking, but he doesn't make much of an impression on me beyond that.

Jeremy and Kurt grab beers and take off their shoes and socks and wade into the lake, holding hands and talking happily to each other. Some students are splashing and laughing in the water, while others are building a fire and still others are dancing to music blasting from a stereo on the dock. I try for a few moments to break the ice and have a conversation with someone, but I lose interest in partying pretty quickly, and I find myself sitting on the dock with my feet in the water, watching people instead.

"Hey Blaine." The dock shifts a little, and a mane of fiery red hair appears in my field of vision as Holly Keys sits down beside me. "You looked lonely. You okay?"

I nod quickly. "Yeah. I'm great. I think I've just exceeded my threshold for faking social skills today. I hate parties, apparently."

She laughs. "Apparently?"

"I never used to," I tell her, "But then again, I can't remember the last time I partied sober."

Holly's eyes narrow and she nods knowingly. "I've been out of rehab for a month," she tells me, "So you don't have to tell me how different things are sober."

"Wow," I say, "Congrats. I've been clean just over six months."

Rolling her eyes, Holly says, "So we can be sobriety buddies. Cool."

I nod. "Excellent."

Holly lights a cigarette and offers me one. I decline, thinking about Kurt's comment about how everyone smokes at Avonroy.

Kurt and Jeremy are making out under a tree by the waterfall, and I can't help but be annoyed by it. Such a public display of affection doesn't fit the character of Kurt that I'd been developing in my head.

Holly sees me watching them, and says, "They're cute, aren't they?"

I say, "Yeah. The one in green is my roommate."

"Oh." Holly catches my eye, and nods as if she understands something even I don't understand.

She shrugs. "They seem happy. Good for them."

It always pisses me off a little when people think they need to congratulate gay people for being in happy relationships.

I say, "Yeah. Hey, I think I'm going to go to bed early. I'll see you in class tomorrow, okay?"

It's only eleven o'clock, but all I want to do is curl up on my bed alone and try to sift through whatever the emotional thinky gunk is that's clogging up my ability to function right now.

"Cool," Holly says, "I'll see you then."

I put my shoes back on and walk back up to the dorm.


	7. I Don't Think I'm Particularly Miserable

**Chapter Seven: I Don't Think I'm Particularly Miserable**

My first week of classes at Avonroy goes by in a crazy onslaught of grammar bootcamps and brainstorming circles.

I've done a lot of writing in my life, especially since I stopped being high all the time, but I've never really shared my work with anyone besides the Avonroy admissions board, who seem so far-removed from me that it wasn't nearly as scary as sharing with my classmates.

I don't care how lame it makes me sound, but it's a hundred times more terrifying to have to create characters and settings and themes and plot and descriptions and dialogue under pressure and under the scrutiny of your peers than it ever was to perform music for a crowd.

The thing about my writing is that it's always sort of been a secret. Not because I'm embarrassed about writing, but because I'm terrified that the products of my mind are stupid. I'm terrified that the stories I pour my soul into writing won't mean anything to anyone else. I'm terrified that people will read the products of my imagination and discover that I'm boring or unoriginal or self-indulgent or crazy.

I've sang Katy Perry ballads with a choir of dudes for an audience of a thousand without even blushing, but the prospect of having one of my stories peer-reviewed and work-shopped is seriously terrifying.

They keep making us do writing exercises in class and then share and discuss our work. People get to comment and critique things that I only had ten minutes to work on. It makes me want to puke. I mean, I get the purpose of it and nobody else seems to mind, but I just feel so vulnerable and stupid when I have to be creative on a time limit. I just know that everyone is judging everyone and trying to figure out who is the most intelligent and the most clever and the best at what we all want to be the best at.

And if it seems like I'm complaining about how far outside my comfort zone I am here, it's unintentional. It's not a bad thing. It freaks me out and makes me dizzy, but that sort of challenge is a fucked up kind of wonderful.

It gives me something to strive towards.

And it forces me to have feelings about things that are happening right now.

I have to work a hundred times harder to find confidence in writing than I ever did in performing.

But then again, I think confidence is a lot harder to find sober no matter what you're doing.

I haven't really seen Kurt since the start-of-term party last weekend. I can only assume that he's staying with Jeremy. After my first night here, I'd thought that he and I were going to be really good friends at the very least, so it sucks that apparently that's not going to happen.

It's conducive to getting a lot of writing done without distractions, so I tell myself I'm glad for the solitude. Nobody can really write if they think someone might be reading over their shoulder.

My first real assignment is due on Monday, and it's postcard fiction. I have to write a 300 word story.

I'm writing about shopping.

The narrator of my story is a pair of ugly, discounted shoes.

Which is either really brilliant or really stupid, and I can't tell which it is.

And when you only have 300 words, every single one of them has to have a significant purpose.

This shit is going to be scrutinized by every single one of my probably more talented classmates.

So it's taking me longer to write 300 words than it took me to write a 5000 word short story for my entrance portfolio.

Anyway, since Kurt's never around, I spend a lot of time with Holly, who lives across the boardwalk from me with a girl named Rita, who is in the theatre arts program and constantly in rehearsals and therefore also not around.

Holly and I have a similar attitude towards socializing; we both understand the joy and importance in community, but neither of us have the social stamina to want to include ourselves in the larger Avonroy community anyway. So we mostly sit on the boardwalk and talk about writing and our ideas and how we really should try to make other friends.

And then we lock ourselves in our rooms and try to create brilliant prose that will impress and amaze the people we really should try to make friends with.

Which I'm perfectly content with, and so is she. We don't need the drama and complications of popularity when we enjoy the company of one another more than enough.

And I don't think I'm particularly miserable right now, so that's the main thing.


	8. Feeling Feelings and Knowing Things

It's late and it's Thursday, and Kurt is at Jeremy's house as usual. I've just spent five hours memorizing schemes and tropes for my rhetoric class, and my brain feels mushy and sleepy from information overload.

Some people say that the craft of writing can't be taught; either you have the flair, or you don't. But learning the theory and understanding the structures and patterns of language makes this whole scary world of writing feel safer. So I study hard and relish having the knowledge to use as a crutch to prop me up if my talent and creativity turn out not to be good enough.

**Chapter Eight: Feeling Feelings and Knowing Things**

My head is swimming with thoughts of anaphora and metonymy and anadiplosis and whatnot as I get ready for bed.

Rhetoric is kind of the most fascinating subject I've ever study. The art of persuasion. How to give your words power. A lot of my classmates find it frustratingly formulaic and complicated, with all of the Greek and Latin and almost math-like patterns, but I find the structure and clear definitions soothing.

So much of writing is subjective and wishy-washy that it's nice to have one area where you can be right or wrong.

I climb the ladder up to my bed, lofted seven feet in the air above the desk where I've just spent hours.

Unthinkingly, I grip the side of the ladder with my left arm and hoist myself upward.

It's been second nature since I was fourteen years old never to use my left arm for anything more strenuous than holding a fork, but somehow tonight I forget.

And then I'm half-paralyzed with pain and falling with a clumsy crunch to the floor.

Fucking fuck it hurts.

The muscles in my left shoulder spasm as the nerves jolt and seize. I curl up and whimper, waiting for it to pass.

Jesus fucking Christ.

My left shoulder is mostly metal and scar tissue due to an old injury, but it somehow still remembers how to hurt as though bear is gnawing at it with acid-drenched teeth wrapped in barbed wire and set on fire if I try to treat it like a human shoulder.

I swear to god I'm not a baby, but I can't handle this pain.

I need some fucking oxy. Or demorol, or percocet, fentonyl or something. Maybe dilaudid. Something. Make the pain stop.

Take all of the reality away for a few moments.

Fuck this; I must have some pills somewhere.

But all I can find is some Benadryl and my asthma inhaler.

I must have hidden something somewhere. Just in case. But where?

The cravings are so intense that for a fraction of an instant, I'm high on the mere memory of how the drugs feel. It rushes through my body and I want so badly to enhance that high that I feel waves of nausea mingling with the pain and increasing every moment that I keep thinking about it.

Fucking hell. Someone in this place has got to have vicodin at the very least.

I barely notice the subsiding pain in my arm as my mind zeroes in on the quest to find drugs.

Holly's an addict. She's got to have a stash somewhere.

Holly.

Fucking hell, I need to find Holly.

I cross the boardwalk to Holly's room, and I pound on the door.

Her roommate, Rita appears at the door. I think I scare her a little when I say, "Holly. I need Holly. Is she here?"

Holly comes to the door, sees the look on my face, and comes out onto the boardwalk, closing the door behind her and grabbing my arm. "What's wrong, Blaine?"

I feel suddenly stupid and awkward, but the buzzing, grating panic of cravings isn't dulled.

"I'm having a moment," I tell her quickly. "I need my sobriety buddy. Distract me."

Her expression hardens in immediate understanding. "Shit," she says. "Blaine, look at me."

I make eye contact with her and try not to feel the shame too profoundly as her deep green irises focus in my line of vision.

"Just stop the thought, Blaine. Stop the thought."

I flash back to AA meetings last winter and imagine visualizing the craving like a TV I can just turn off.

"Bullshit, Holly," I say, "It doesn't work like that. Come on. Let's do something. Anything. My skin is crawling."

"Okay." Holly nods. "I know. Okay. I have an idea. Follow me."

My skin is slippery with sweat I don't remember sweating, and I'm not wearing any shoes, but I follow Holly down the boardwalk, past the dorm buildings, around the theatre building, and through some trees and down a long path until we're standing on a thirty-foot cliff over the lake.

"Don't think," she tells me, "Just follow me."

And she throws herself off of the cliff.

My heart skips a beat as I watch her long curtain of red hair follow her down down down towards the water.

And then there's the splash, and she disappears under the moonlit surface of the deep purple, moonlit lake.

And I don't even wait to see her come back up before I'm freefalling through the sharp, early October Montana midnight toward her.

The air feels empty and infinite.

The water feels like an ice-cold, glacier-fed mountain lake and it snaps all of my focus onto reality as I plunge into its depths.

For the most momentary instant, I am suspended under the surface of Lake Avonroy, feeling feelings and knowing things.

And then I'm spitting and sputtering and splashing, treading water and swearing loudly.

Rita is right beside me, laughing breathlessly and untangling herself from her hair.

Neither of us speak for a very long instant, and then she says, "Well? Did that help?"


	9. Other People's Drug Stories

**Chapter Nine: Other People's Drug Stories**

I burst out laughing. Everything hurts from the shock of the frigidly cold lake, but the insane quantity of adrenaline pumping through my body makes the pain okay.

"You're a crazy bitch," I gasp, splashing her as we tread water in place, reeling from having just jumped off a cliff.

She says, "And you're just fucking suicidal," she tells me, also gasping, "You didn't even wait to see if I was alive."

I grin. I feel almost radiant with sheer nerve and stunned pride at what I've just done.

"You said to trust you," I say.

"Yeah," she says, "And you sure did. Holy shit. My heart is pounding."

I nod, unable to find the words or the breath to say anything more.

We tread in the deep, icy water for several long and silent moments, before our hearts stop pounding and our blood stops buzzing and we feel our muscles start to cramp up from the cold.

"Okay, let's get out of here," Holly says finally, "I think I'm about to drown."

So we swim past the cliff to where we can climb onto the shore and trudge in our soaking wet clothes and shoes back through the deserted midnight campus and to our rooms.

We take hot showers and change our clothes and then find ourselves curled up together under a blanket on the boardwalk in the moonlight.

"That was incredible," I tell her, "Thank you, Holly. I needed that."

She giggles. "I think we both did. Sweet fuck, I can't believe we're still alive."

"You really didn't know if it was safe?"

Raising an eyebrow, Holly says, "Is jumping off a cliff ever safe?"

I shrug. "We're unharmed."

Rearranging her mass of damp red hair, Holly tells me, "I saw some guys cliff jumping there last week. But I wasn't positive that that spot was the right spot. We got lucky."

I laugh. "Well, it wouldn't have been as magical if it weren't for the danger."

She nods. "Oh my god; that felt good, didn't it? Like… _really _good?"

"Yeah. Better than drugs."

"Yeah."

We lie there for a moment, watching the incredible night sky above us, and then Holly says, "I've never gone this long without relapsing before. Two months. I've been clean for two months."

I squeeze her hand.

Shaking her head, Holly says, "I started using when I was fifteen."

I feel a little internal twist of dread. So we're going to tell our stories.

I hate hearing other people's drug stories.

But I say, "I was fourteen."

Holly lights a cigarette. "I started with ecstasy," she tells me. "My friend Delanie gave it to me. And I remember being so… ashamed. My best friend was this girl… Karin. She was the nicest, most wholesome, honest person. I loved her-still love her-to pieces. When I admitted to her that I'd gotten high… I honestly don't think she's respected me since. And I swore I'd never do it again."

I cough as cigarette smoke drifts into my face, and Holly and I wordlessly switch places so that I'm no longer downwind from her.

"But obviously you did. Do it again, I mean."

Nodding, Holly says, "Yeah. I did more E. And I started smoking a lot of pot. And drinking. Lots of drinking. By the time I was sixteen, I was using anything I could get my hands on. Meth was my favorite."

My stomach churns a little. I don't want to know Holly's story. I like the mystery behind the incredible head of hair a lot better than the truth.

But I adopt a sympathetic tone. "Meth, huh?"

Holly nods. "And the stupid thing is… my dad was always a heavy smoker and a heavy drinker, and I hated him for it. I swore I'd never smoke and I'd never drink. Karin and I had talked about it a lot. We swore we wouldn't end up like him."

She laughs, dragging on her cigarette.

"But I ended up worse. And Karin… she just couldn't relate to me, because she wouldn't try any of it, and I would never ask her to. But she never asked me to stop. She just let me do my thing. She just let me destroy myself."

I feel something for her when she says this, but I'm not really sure what it is. Pity? Judgement? Empathy? I don't know. I squeeze her hand. "We're still young, Holly. You're not destroyed."

She smiles faintly and nods. "I know. But it wasn't easy getting here. I dropped out of high school… lived in horrifying motels with sleazy boyfriends… had a few abortions…estranged myself from my family… fried a lot of brain cells…" She shakes herself a little and says, "But hey. I'm clean now. I'm here."

This is why I hate hearing people's stories. Because they're always the same, and they always make me respect people less. Dumb mistakes and a lot of regrets and always the hope… until the hope disappears and more dumb mistakes are made.

But what kind of a friend am I to even think that? Holly's got spirit. She's strong. She'll make it this time.

I nod. "We're here. And that's the important part."

"So what about you?" she asks, "What's your story?"

I shrug, and she adds quickly, "Sorry. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But I love hearing other people's stories. It gives me hope."

I say quickly, "I got hooked on painkillers after a shoulder injury in freshman year. And I started going to this really wealthy private school where getting your hands on prescription drugs was comically easy. So I spent most of high school stoned on oxy and percocet, and almost nobody even realized. I didn't really see it as a problem."

"Jesus, Blaine," says Holly, "That stuff is as bad as heroin."

"Yeah," I say, "I know."

She asks, "So what happened? I mean, when did you start seeing it as a problem?"

It's really not a story I feel needs to be told, but Holly was honest with me, and that's important, so I'll be honest with her.

"I moved to New York… started partying with a different crowd… drinking more, sleeping less, using different drugs… and then my mom died."

Holly gasps. "Fuck. I'm sorry, Blaine."

I nod. "Yeah. Well. I was nineteen, and it really fucked me up. That's when I dropped out of NYU. And I just started partying full-time. I inherited a lot of money from Mom, so I could afford to just be high all the time and not think about anything. Until, of course, I almost killed myself and ended up in rehab."

Holly nods, squeezing my hand. "It's all so fucked up, isn't it? When I was a kid, imagining adulthood… I never once thought it would involve having to jump off cliffs to control substance cravings."

I laugh quietly. "Yeah, it's pretty fucked up. But I dunno. I think we're both in pretty good places right now, right? I mean… Avonroy's great, isn't it?"

Shrugging, Holly stares at the stars and echoes, "Avonroy's great."


	10. A Perfect Grade and a Bravo

**Chapter Ten: A Perfect Grade and a Bravo**

My first honest attempt at writing something that someone might want to read was a 3000 word short story about a pre-teen summer camp. I sent it to the Avonroy admissions board, sealed with a weird kind of anticipation and excitement. I was proud of that story. It took a lot out of me to write, and I felt like it was good.

They let me into Avonroy, but nobody ever gave me any feedback on that story.

Now I'm sitting in my Short Fiction Forms class, fully aware that any minute now, my postcard fiction about shoes is going to be returned to me.

It's ridiculously nerve-wracking.

I mean, I've had feedback on a few in-class writing exercises and stuff. Most of it has been positive or at the very least constructive, but it's hard to place much value in that when the writing is rushed and unedited.

This story is the most heavily-edited 300 words I've ever dreamed of, and I just know that it's going to crush me if the prof didn't like it.

I really don't know what I'll do if I came all this way and left behind so much for a craft that I turn out to suck at.

"Alright, alright," says the prof, a short, most bald man called Don. "Let's get these postcard fictions back to you then, so that you can relax."

I feel the anticipation almost solidifying in the air as everyone leans forward and makes nervous eye contact with their friends.

It's sort of ridiculous how much emotional capital I think we all have riding on the outcome of this tiny assignment.

Holly grabs my hand from the chair beside me, and I squeeze hers back. We don't look at each other. We're both a little bit afraid that the other is going to have done better than we have.

Don says, "Postcard fiction is a nightmare. I know that. But if you can't tell a story in 300 words, you really need to ask yourself if you can tell a story at all."

There's something really ominous about the way he says it, and I feel Holly's hand go limp in mine. "That being said," he continues, "The class average on this assignment was a B. So most of you have nothing to worry about. And a couple of you have an extraordinary gift that most people on this mountain would sell kidneys for. You just need to figure out how to use it. So don't give up."

Fuck. This is not a promising pep talk at all.

Don begins passing out papers, and I try not to watch anyone's face as they peek at their grades and start scanning their feedback. I don't want to know how anyone did but me.

"Blaine Anderson?"

I nod and put up my hand to call Don's attention to me. He passes me my paper wordlessly.

Holly catches my eye as hold it close to my chest. I look away and turn towards the wall to peruse my assignment.

My eyes go to the bottom of the page, and I and feel a weird sort of resolved emotion as my eyes land on the bright red 10/10 scrawled there.

_Genuinely entertaining and imaginative piece. Good Work. _

And that's it. No further comments. Nothing specific. Nothing constructive. No room for improvement.

Just a perfect grade and a bravo.

I look around. Most of my classmates are either frowning intently or grinning furtively, eyes still pouring over the words on their pages. Nobody else is looking up yet. Did they get more feedback than I did? Or is everyone just looking at their stories to avoid looking at everyone else?

Seriously though? I know I should be grateful for the good mark, but after so much anticipation and worry, I feel like I've been robbed a real critique. He liked my story, but he didn't tell me why. How am I supposed to believe that he really liked it if he didn't give me a reason why? He might have just been tired to grading papers by the time he got to mine.

Or maybe he just really doesn't put as much thought into this stuff as I do.

I look at Holly. She's staring at her paper with a curtain of her hair obstructing my view of her face. I glance down at her paper and see it nearly saturated in red penned comments.

What the actual fuck?

She sees me peeking, and she quickly pulls her paper to her chest so that I can't see. I look away quickly.

After a few painful moments, I ask her, "So how'd you do?"

Her voice is a little small as she says, "Oh, you know. Good enough. You?"

She doesn't make eye contact with me, and I can't tell if it's because she's trying not to brag or trying not to cry.

"Yeah," I agree quickly, stowing my paper in my bag, "Good enough."

We don't make eye contact for the rest of the class.

I can't figure out what I'm feeling right now.


	11. Give up on my Misery

**Chapter Eleven: Give up on my Misery**

We finally get our assignments for our Long Fiction Forms class today. We all have to write a novel by April, and we have to write it in a genre we pull out of a hat.

I pull Urban Fantasy. I don't think I even know what that means.

It's Friday night and there's a party in the student lounge, but I decide not to go-mostly because I want to dig into the novel writing before the procrastination bug infects me.

If there's one thing I've learned after five weeks at Avonroy, it's that when I feel like writing, I should write. Because there's nothing more satisfying than writing when you have the itch to do so, and nothing more painful than writing when you don't.

Holly's not pleased when she finds out I'm not going to the party.

"Are you serious?" she asks, "You're going to stay in on a Friday night to work on assignment that isn't due for seven months?"

Shrugging, I say, "I want to do some brainstorming. Make an outline. Make a plan. While the motivation is still fresh. You know how easy it could be to put this off until it's too late."

Pouting, Holly says, "But it's _Friday. _There's a _party_. We have to go."

I groan. "I hate parties."

Which makes me grin a little, because it's so ironic. I used to party full-time. And now I say stuff like, "I hate parties."

Who the fuck am I becoming?

I add, "And nobody's stopping you from going without me, Holly."

Rolling her eyes, Holly says. "Oh come on. You know I can't go anywhere without you. I'm awkward as fuck by myself."

I nod. She really is. I watch her sometimes, when she doesn't know I'm around. Holly doesn't have a clue how to talk to people. For the life of me, I don't know how she managed to make friends with me.

But I'm incredibly grateful that she did.

"So come hang out in my dorm. We can brainstorm together. It could be fun."

Shaking her head, Holly says, "I only write alone."

I nod. "Yeah. Me too."

Holly says, "Blaine, you have to include yourself. In the community. In the campus culture. Try to have a social life. Otherwise you're just going to get obsessed and lonely, and then you're going to backslide."

Grinning, I say, "Holly, I spent half my life partying. If I have the inclination to avoid a party now, I'm going to savour it. It'll be good for you to go without me. Try to meet someone. Have some fun."

She scowls a little, and says, "Fine. But next weekend, I'm going to have to insist."

So I go up to my dorm, and Holly goes down to the cafeteria.

I spend an hour researching urban fantasy, and then an hour making a list of stupid ideas for an urban fantasy novel.

There's something really strange and fulfilling to focus so much energy into generating ideas for a purely creative pursuit. The problem I have to solve is purely my own. Nobody else is going to be affected by the book I write, unless it's a really good book.

And I want so very desperately to write a good book.

But I think that all of my ideas are ridiculous.

Just when I think I've finally gotten an idea that isn't quite stupid-about a mind-reader who gets trapped inside another mind-reader's mind-my thoughts are interrupted by someone tapping me on the shoulder.

I practically jump out of my skin, and I turn around to see Kurt standing there.

He's tall and slender and handsome and impeccably dressed with perfectly groomed hair and flawless skin and tear-stained cheeks, and my stomach does weird things when I see him.

Pulling my earphones out of my ears, I say, "Fuck, you scared me."

"Sorry," says Kurt, "I just wanted to ask if I could borrow your toothpaste. I don't think I have any here."

I minimize my brainstorming document on my laptop, not willing to let Kurt read all of my stupid ideas, and I say, "Yeah, go for it."

He thanks me and disappears into our bathroom.

I check my watch. It's midnight. I was hoping to stay up all night writing, but now Kurt's here and apparently getting ready for bed.

Kurt's been home like three times since the start of term five weeks ago. I don't know why he's here, but he seems upset. I try not to be annoyed that my solitude has been disturbed.

But it's not like I'm going to be able to write when Kurt could be watching me or listening to my keystrokes.

Fuck.

There was a time when solitude was my worst nightmare.

"You're staying here tonight?" I ask Kurt when he comes out of the bathroom.

He nods. "Yep," he says with an obvious air of resignation, "I sure am."

"Is everything alright?" I ask him, knowing that it's not; Kurt looks miserable.

But he shrugs and says, "Yeah. It's cool."

Raising an eyebrow, I say, "Kurt, you haven't spent more than ten minutes in our room all term. Why are you here tonight?"

Kurt grimaces. "Fuck," he says, "I'm a terrible roommate, aren't I?"

I shrug. "I've had worse."

Shaking his head, Kurt says, "No, I'm terrible. I'm sorry. I've made no effort to get to know you."

"It's fine, Kurt," I say, even though it does give me a nice sense of validation to have him acknowledge it.

He sighs, sitting down at his desk chair. "When I'm dating someone, I always get so caught up in them that I forget about everyone else in my life."

"I think everyone does that," I say, "So don't worry about it. You sure you're okay?"

Rolling his eyes, Kurt says, "Jeremy and I are fighting. So I'm here."

Jeremy's kind of an asshole, so I'm a little glad that things are rocky between him and Kurt. Kurt's not an asshole.

"I'm sorry, Kurt. You wanna talk about it?"

Kurt taps his hand on his leg, shrugging. "He's an ass. Most of the time I love him enough for it not to matter, but sometimes his douche-baggery just gets out of hand. I'm pretty sure I'm going to break up with him tomorrow. I just have to… you know. Make sure that I'm sure."

"Did he do something, or…?"

"Yeah," Kurt says with an annoyed grimace. "He cheated on me. Again. But that's not really the point. He's just rude to people. And he's so… douchey. And full of himself. And I'm embarrassed to be with him. And yet I just can't stop. Because I love him… Fuck. You don't want to hear this."

It's a little uncomfortable because I think I've been the asshole in a relationship exactly like Kurt and Jeremy's. And yet I feel like I understand Kurt completely.

I've loved way too many people and things that I didn't like one bit.

I tell Kurt, "You can talk to me. I don't mind. Sounds like you could use someone to talk things through with."

Apologetically, Kurt nods. "I'm just a little confused as to why it's so hard to just end a relationship that makes me miserable."

"Shit like that is never easy," I say, "I had to move across the country to force myself to give up on my misery."

Smiling faintly, Kurt says, "I know. I just can't figure out if love outweighs the misery."

"I can't answer that for you," I say, "And I'm not the right person to give relationship advice, but Kurt, if he's cheating on you, then you have to ask yourself whether that love is mutual. Because I really don't think that unrequited love will ever outweigh misery."

I watch Kurt's face carefully as I say it, because people who are going end a relationship are usually strengthened by subtle criticisms like that of their boyfriends. People who're going to stay in the relationship just get defensive.

Kurt grimaces, and says, "I know. But I think he loves me in his own way. He just doesn't think things through. He's… I dunno. I just don't know."

So Kurt's going to stay with him. Which seriously pisses me off.

I say, "Just think about it. You deserve to be treated well, Kurt. I don't know Jeremy, but if he's not treating you right, he isn't right for you. It can be that simple. Okay?"

Nodding quietly, Kurt says, "Yeah okay. I'm going to bed. Thanks, Blaine."

So he climbs up into bed, and I sit at my desk, trying to write while my brain refuses to stop dwelling on my roommate's presence.


	12. Wonderful Way to Fuck up our Friendship

**Chapter Twelve: A Wonderful Way to Fuck up our Friendship**

My twenty-second birthday is on October 17, which is today-a Sunday. Most of my classmates are at a poetry writing conference in Missoula, which I decided not to go to.

I don't write poetry. It always feels too much like holding emotions hostage in ink.

But Kurt is back with Jeremy now, and Holly has been in her hometown all weekend for a friend's wedding, so now I kind of regret not going.

I'm spending my birthday alone.

And obviously there are worse problems to have, but it's a stark contrast to last year's birthday, which I spent fucked up on a painkiller cocktail and partying in a penthouse with some guys I met at some concert.

Today I'm walking down by a serene mountain lake stone sober and completely alone, and I'm definitely having one of those 'how did I end up here' sort of moments.

How did I go from full-time partying to being the guy who spends all day daydreaming about the stories he'll write as soon as he can get some solitude. The guy who resents other people's presence, because it interferes with his ability to focus on the fiction he wants to fabricate.

I've always been like that on some level-I've always enjoyed quiet, lonely moments to sit and write… but now I'm afraid that I'm using it to avoid reality.

I'm starting question everything. Again.

I'm twenty-two, but I really don't think I know who I am yet. When I was a teenager, I never really did what teenagers are supposed to do- all of the self-discovery coming-of-age stuff. Growing up. Maturing. I spent too much time buzzing on popularity, self-satisfaction, ambition, and oxycodone to ever really become a real person.

It's not easy for a guy like me to find a place to belong in Ohio, but in high school I found out that I could get people to love me if I got on a stage, so I put every ounce of energy I had into staying in that spotlight.

And it took the loss of my mother, a near-fatal heroin overdose, and a month in rehab for me to figure out that I might actually want a relationship with a person instead of a crowd.

Anyway, after a complete shift in life goals, I feel like right now, for the first time in my life, I'm actually figuring out who I am underneath all of the charisma and showmanship that used to make it so easy to substitute applause was a healthy substitute for love.

But what if I'm just using writing the same way I used to use performing? To avoid real-life relationships?

There are nine other people in my year of the writing program, and we're all pretty quiet, solitary people. Popularity is on nobody's radar. We all want to write something more powerful that what the person beside us writes, but I get the feeling most of us couldn't care less what our classmates actually think about us.

But where does dedication to the craft end and unhealthy obsession begin?

I feel like I know the characters in my novel better than I know myself-and for sure better than I know Holly or Kurt or any of my classmates.

I don't know if my recent preference for solitude is my natural personality, or the remaining vestiges of the depression I want desperately to be over.

I don't know if I hang out with Holly because I like her, or because we're such similar people that it's easy.

I don't know if I write because I'm a writer, or because I need someone to hear my story.

I don't know if I'm happy at Avonroy because I'm growing into a new life, or because I'm hiding from my old life.

I don't know if turning 22 makes me feel old or way too young.

I don't know why I'm here.

I don't know if I really understand what the words Blaine Anderson mean anymore.

And I don't really know why any of these questions have to matter if I actually am as happy here as I'm starting to think I am.

Because I actually think I'm happy here.

I walk back up to my dorm, slowly because my chest feels tight and achy, and I don't want to do anything to trigger the asthma attack I think is probably lying in wait, deep in my lungs.

I climb up to my bed to try to sleep off this weird moody confusion.

But I can't sleep, so I take a long shower and spend an hour trying to work the painful knots out of my fucked up shoulder.

My breathing still feels weird.

I want Holly to come home.

I want Kurt to break up with Jeremy.

I want my fucking shoulder to stop hurting.

I want my mother back.

I want to get high so unbelievably badly.

At midnight, I go sit on the boardwalk between Holly's and my dorm rooms, waiting for her to get back. It's a cool night, and the air feels like it might be one of the last cool nights before winter hits and everything is just cold.

Holly is all dressed up and gorgeous when she shows up, and I can't help but wonder how a girl as beautiful and smart as her could possibly let herself get addicted to crystal meth.

Which makes me a complete hypocrite, and I hate it.

"How was the wedding?" I ask anyway, intensely annoyed at my own moody unpredictability tonight.

Holly grins widely. "Oh my god, it was beautiful," she says, "So beautiful. I can't believe Karin is married. It makes me feel so old. It feels like yesterday that she and I were playing with Barbie dolls in her back yard."

I honestly don't know if any of my old friends from Ohio are married yet. I don't talk to any of them anymore.

"Crazy."

She nods, and then raises her eyebrows at me. "Where've you been?"

Shrugging, I say, "Nowhere. I've just been sitting on the boardwalk. Why?"

"You sound like you've just been running or something."

I rub my chest and make a face. "No, it's just asthma."

I've been feeling breathless all day.

"Oh." Holly shrugs. "Well, hey, Blaine?"

"Yeah?"

"How old are you?"

She suddenly has this strange, sad and determined look on her face, and it makes me a little nervous.

"Twenty-two," I say.

I don't really know why I don't tell her it's my birthday. I guess I just don't want to have to pretend that it's not important.

Nodding, Holly says, "Yeah. Me too. Twenty-two. Do you ever feel like we really should have accomplished more with our lives by now?"

I raise my eyebrows. "What, like getting married?"

Holly frowns, sweeping her hair over her shoulder. "No. Well yeah, maybe. I dunno. I just feel like all of my friends are grown-ups, and I still don't even know who I am."

"I'm right there with you," I say, "But I don't think it has anything to do with age."

Shrugging, Holly says, "Most of my friends graduated college last year. And I'm just starting now."

"Yeah," I say, "But you're at Avonroy. Holly, we're in a program that only lets in ten students a year. Do you know how many hundred writers would kill to be where we are right now?"

She smiles a little. "Yeah. Yeah I know. That's pretty crazy. But the thing is… I applied as a wild, stupid sort of joke, and then I got in. So now I have to take that wild, stupid joke seriously, and I'm still not really sure if I want to."

I laugh. "I know what you mean," I say, "I mean, sort of. I mean, I applied to a bunch of schools, but I didn't really know if I was serious about the whole writing thing until I saw my Avonroy acceptance. Then shit got real."

Giggling, Holly says, "I think we're both in over our heads a little bit here."

"There are worse things we could be in over our heads in," I say.

She nods. We're both quiet for a moment. Holly pulls out her cigarettes and lights one. I feel a flash of annoyance; she _knows_ that I'm allergic to smoke, and she can _hear_ that my asthma is already acting up, but she's still going to smoke. Right beside me.

Then she asks, "Blaine… what are we doing?"

I shrug. "Trying to become writers?"

Shaking her head, Holly says, "No. I mean like… us. You and me."

My stomach jumps and my heart sinks with sudden dread. "Uh… what do you mean, Holly?" I ask carefully.

She says, "Fuck. Blaine, I hate this. But I'm going to go crazy if we keep dancing around it. Look, I like you, okay? And I can't tell if we're just friends, or if it's more. I'm going to put myself out there… I want more."

I blink at her. What the fuck is going on? This is all wrong. Oh Holly.

"Holly…" I say, catching eye uncertainly, "Holly, I'm gay. I thought you knew that."

What a wonderful way to fuck up our friendship.

I see a wave of humiliation cross her face, and I think for a moment that she's going to cry or hit me or something. "Fuck," she says, nodding with an apologetic, mortified grimace. "Fuck, of course you are. Okay. Fuck."

I put my arm around her. "I'm so sorry. Are you alright?"

She keeps nodding. "Fuck. Yes. Just give me a few minutes to bask in my humiliation, and then we'll pretend this conversation never happened, okay?"

I squeeze her, and kiss the top of her head. "I love you, Holly. Fuck. I'm so sorry."

She drags on her cigarette, and I feel the smoke unavoidably crawl into my lungs. I try to convince myself that it's only because I'm anticipating it that my airways are coiling tighter.

She closes her eyes for a few moments, and then laughs weakly. "I'm an idiot. Don't apologize."

"No," I say, "This is my fault. I can't believe I didn't tell you."

Is it possible that I've unintentionally closeted myself again just by taking it for granted that people already know I'm gay?

The first time I came out of the closet it almost killed me. And then somehow the rest of my life got so fucked up that I barely even consider my sexuality an issue.

Even though my sexuality is probably at the root of all of my problems.

And yet Holly is my closest friend, and she had no idea.

How could I be such an ass?

Poor Holly.

"It makes sense," Holly says, after a while "That you're gay. The more I think about it, the more it explains. I just can't believe you never told me."

She taps ash off of her cigarette, and I get an uncomfortable lungful of smoke as the wind changes directions.

She can see the annoyance on my face, but she misplaces it. "What?" she asks, "I mean, you're not in the closet or anything, are you?"

"No," I say quickly, "No, I've been out since I was fourteen. Or at least, I thought I was."

Holly laughs. "Fuck. Blaine, I feel like such an idiot right now. Please don't hate me for this."

"Don't worry. Are you okay? I mean… really?"

Because I really don't think she is.

But she shrugs. "Hey. Don't worry about it. There are other guys. I'm just sorry I wasted so much time thinking you were a possibility. Fuck. You like Kurt huh? That's why you don't like Jeremy. I thought you were just uncomfortable having a gay roommate. Fuck. I need to stop talking."

She leans toward me to make sincere eye contact with me, and I automatically turn away, coughing as air starts tripping over the increasing constriction in my asthmatic lungs.

When I turn back to her, there are tears streaming down her face.

"Oh Holly," I cough, "I'm sorry."

She shakes her head, choking back tears. "I just… ugh. I'm sorry."

She's crying too hard to say anything now, and I'm too paralyzed by shock and humiliation to know what to do.

I think I just broke a girl's heart.

My breathlessness has turned into a thick wheeze.

She says quietly, "Please, please, please, pretend this never happened."

I whisper, "I will. And I'd love to talk more about it…"

Putting out her cigarette, Holly finishes, "But you're having an asthma attack. Fuck. This is my fault too, huh?"

I pull my arm off of her shoulders and stand up. "Sorry," I say quickly, "But yeah. I need my inhaler."

"You should go," she says, "I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

She disappears into her dorm room, and I duck into my own, lightheaded, wheezing, and humiliated.

Fuck.


	13. An Important Part of my Identity

**Chapter Thirteen: An Important Part of my Identity**

I don't go to class today, because I want to give Holly and I time to adjust to the new shift in our relationship without having to deal with seeing each others' faces.

Which really just means that I'm too much of a chicken to face her right now.

I can't stop thinking about the look on her face as she asked me where our relationship was going. The resolve, the hope, the terror…

I honestly don't know how it's possible that she didn't know I was gay. It's not like I make any effort at concealing it.

But then again it's not like I'm exactly flamboyant.

Still. How long had Holly been psyching up to ask me out? Or hoping that I'd ask her?

I just don't know if our entire friendship was built on her attraction to me, or if what we have is actually real.

Does a relationship built on false hopes have a chance of staying up once the false hopes are gone?

It dropped about thirty degrees and snowed half a foot overnight, which at least explains why breathing was so difficult yesterday. I often have asthma attacks when the weather changes suddenly.

By the way, I should mention that asthma is pretty much my least favourite part of life. And there's a lot of stuff about life that I should probably dislike more, but asthma just fucking sucks.

I was up most of the night last night just trying to breathe.

When I was a kid and I got asthma attacks, my mom was a pro at making me feel better. She and I got really close when I was little, just because I was so asthmatic that I couldn't go to school a lot of the time.

Fuck, I miss her.

After she died, and I was destroying myself in New York, I lived in a state of half-suffocation, too wasted to even remember what it felt like to breathe freely. I remember there was this one night where I was sitting on the floor of this half-empty apartment where some guy I was fucking lived. I was completely fucked up on some pills my friend Jack sold me, and so far gone with asthma that I couldn't even hear myself wheeze anymore.

I thought that I was going to die. And then I had this weird vision or hallucination… I wish I could believe it was real… where my mom appeared in the room, and she rubbed my back and held me tight and did all of the things that always made me feel better when I was a kid.

She didn't judge me for all of the stupid choices that led to that moment; she just helped. And I still think I might not have lived through that night if she hadn't been there.

Now I can't so much as cough without thinking of Mom and trying to feel her presence.

Anyway, last night was tough, so I feel slightly justified in staying home today, even though I'm feeling fine now.

And it's nice to have a somewhat honest excuse when Kurt comes home in the middle of the day and wonders why I'm not in class.

"I had a bad asthma attack last night," I explain, trying to keep my tone sheepishly charming, "So I figured I'd just take it easy today."

Frowning, Kurt wipes the snow off of his boots. "I'm sorry," he says, "That doesn't sound fun."

"No," I agree as he pulls off his coat, "Not at all. What about you? Shouldn't you have class too?"

Kurt shakes his head. "My professor drove her car off the road on the way up from the village."

My jaw drops, but he says quickly, "She's fine. But her car is totalled and she's not happy about it, so she cancelled class."

I grimace. "Well. It's good she's okay."

"Yeah," Kurt agrees, sitting down at his desk chair, "The roads are really icy. I barely made it up the mountain myself."

"Yikes. This is why I don't drive."

Kurt shrugs. I ask, "So how're things with Jeremy? Better?"

He shrugs again. "I guess." He straightens his spine and amends, "I mean, yeah. They are. Sometimes I get so caught up in my old fantasies of who I thought I'd end up with that I lose sight of what makes the guy I actually ended up with great. He and I are solid."

My stomach squirms a little, which makes me think about Holly's accusation last night. That I'm jealous of Jeremy.

But I say, "I'm glad."

He nods, suddenly studying me more intently. "And you, Blaine? Are you dating anyone? I'm guessing that redheaded girl, right? What's her name? Rita?"

I literally feel sick, and I feel my cheeks flushing to bright red. "Her name's Holly," I say, "Rita's the roommate. But trust me, we're just friends."

"Hmm. Well, I think she wants more. She asked me about you, you know. Wanted to know if I thought you were into her."

Jaw dropping, I say, "Oh fuck. Please don't tell me you told her yes."

Shrugging, Kurt says, "I said probably. I mean, you hang out all the time. And she's hot. Even I can see that."

I stare at Kurt. He's watching me carefully back. "Okay, seriously," I say, "I'm _gay_."

He breaks out into a wide grin. "I _knew_ it!" he says, throwing his arms up in triumph. "Fuck yeah. Jeremy owes me fifty bucks."

I don't know whether to laugh or be offended. I say, "You seriously made a bet with your boyfriend on whether or not I was gay."

His smile is adorable. "Jeremy said you were too charming to be gay. He's got this stupid idea that all gay people have to have weird social deficiencies because of all the crap we take. So a guy like you couldn't possibly be gay. He's full of shit."

What kind of an impression do I give off? What on earth could Kurt mean by "a guy like you"? What kind of guy am I? I have a ton of weird social deficiencies.

"That's ridiculous," I say, "Are you kidding me?"

Shrugging, Kurt says, "Jeremy's got a lot of stupid ideas about things that he thinks are profound."

I try to laugh, but I can't. I still don't know who Kurt thinks I am. "Seriously though," I say, "Holly asked me out last night."

Kurt busts out laughing, which somehow makes me feel better.

I say, "Really though. It's not like I'm in the closet. How is it possible that my sexuality has become such a non-issue for me that I don't even think to mention it to my best friend?"

His laughter dissolves almost instantly, and he raises his eyebrows seriously. "Fuck," he says, "That's actually kind of a beautiful thought. I feel like I've spent my entire life trying to achieve that. Because really. It _shouldn't_ be an issue."

Nodding, I say, "I know. But it's still a pretty fucking big part of who I am. Do you think I subconsciously closeted myself again because I still haven't really dealt with it, or do you think I'm just so okay with it that it didn't matter? I just don't know."

Shaking his head, Kurt says, "That's tough. I don't think I know you enough to really help you find the answer. But if you ask me, you seem pretty damn sure of yourself, Blaine. I don't think you're hiding from anything."

Snorting, I say, "Yeah well. You don't really know me, huh?"

Sheepishly, but with a curious twinkle in his eye, Kurt says, "I guess not."

"It just… we grew up two hours away from each other. Your experience can't have been that different from mine. You remember how horrifying it was to come out, right? How cruel people were?"

Kurt nods. "I still have nightmares about the dumpsters and the slushies and all of the threats."

I nod. "Yeah. And enduring that shit makes you so strong. People don't just go back into the closet after shit like that. We're out for good. SO what the fuck happened to me?"

Kurt crosses his legs. Well, let's talk about it. When did you come out? What was your coming out experience? Or were you just one of those kids who were always out? I came out when I was like 16 or something, but I'm pretty sure everyone who knew me at all already knew."

Shuddering, I say, "I don't like to think back to that time."

"Really? You seem like the type to come out early and pull it off effortlessly. Especially at that private school you went to. We heard rumors of its magical sanctuary even in Lima."

I grimace. "Yeah. Dalton was great. They put you in a uniform and scrape away anything that makes you unique, and then act like it's a big deal that we treat each other like equals."

Kurt raises an eyebrow. I shake my head. "Anyway, I was going to public school when I came out. I was 14."

"And?" Kurt asks, "I mean, for me, it was okay. My dad was cool about it. He's always been cool about it. And I had great friends. But I can't pretend like the endless bullying didn't get to me."

I close my eyes. "I was extremely lucky after I got to Dalton."

"But before Dalton?"

This really isn't something I've talked about much-not because it's a secret, but because I've never really been asked about it before.

I shrug. "People were assholes. I… I got beat up pretty bad in freshman year. People were seriously not okay with me taking another guy to a dance… I ended up in intensive care. My shoulder is still fucked up from that. But I got out. And the rest of high school was… different."

Grimacing, Kurt says, "I'm sorry. That you were assaulted, I mean. But Dalton was better, huh?"

"Yeah. I mean, Dalton was a weird place. They're so proud of their reputation that they'll pretend they're okay with anything. I could be as gay as I wanted, and all they'd do would be to shower me with support and encouragement. I could be whoever I wanted to be."

Kurt laughs. "Fuck."

I laugh. "Yeah, I know right?"

He nods.

I say, "And in New York, I was never really around anyone who gave a shit. So I guess I just stopped giving a shit. I had other problems."

But when I look back at it, most of those problems were born the day I got beat up. The fallout with my dad. Becoming obsessed with performance. The drugs.

Whatever. I've spent too much time trying to figure out who I am to want to go back and figure out how being gay figures into the whole equation.

It's not like I avoid thinking about my sexuality. I've been with men. Probably too many men.

Whatever. This doesn't mean anything.

"Honestly, Blaine?" Kurt says, "I think you're reading into this whole thing with Holly too much. You're allowed to be gay, and you're allowed not to talk about it if it doesn't seem important. Holly seems tough. She'll bounce back."

I nod. "I know. I do that. Read into things too much. I just have this weird feeling in my stomach about the whole thing. Because apparently being gay isn't even an important part of my identity anymore. And I don't know if that's good or bad."

"It's just who you are," Kurt says, "And one gay guy to another? I think it's kind of sexy. So many guys like us let their sexuality define them. You're just Blaine. You're cool and confident good at what you do. Why should anything else matter?"

He's absolutely right-so right that I actually can't figure out what I'm so confused about. I say, "I guess I just need to talk to Holly."

Kurt agrees. "You do. She's got to feel like such an idiot. But if you talk to her about what we've been talking about… she'll be okay."

And I just hope like heck that he's right.


	14. Give Me a Reason to Hate You

**Chapter Fourteen: Give Me a Reason to Hate You **

Winter in Montana isn't at all like winter in New York City. Everything is quiet here. The snow seems to have blanketed anything that emitted noise within miles of Avonroy. I'm not really much of an outdoorsman, but I don't think you can live in a place as beautiful as this at such a beautiful time of year and not want to just hike for hours.

Of course, I have no time for hiking. Assignments are piling up, and now that I've received three or four excellent grades, I'm really feeling the pressure to live up to my professors' prematurely high expectations.

In all of my classes, we're knee-deep in peer-reviews, editing the crap out of each other's work. Most of it is done anonymously for now, to avoid hurt feelings, but we've all been warned that this won't last long.

The idea of someone picking apart my work without knowing that it was me who wrote it is bad enough. I'm not looking forward to having the whole class read what could be evidence of my stupidity when my name is really on it.

Also, I have this weird feeling that the short story I'm reviewing is Holly's, and I kind of hate it, so I hope I'm wrong.

Still, most of the stuff I'm reading unbelievable, which once again underscores how ill-prepared I am to be studying with these kinds of people.

These are people who have never wanted anything except to write.

And they're fucking awesome at it.

I get the feeling that I have talent, but I don't know if it's even fair to compare myself with them when I'm still so new to all of this.

After classes today, Holly and I join in with a few other people in our class-Paul and Greg and Carlie-to cram for our Rhetoric midterm. There's something very satisfying about expending all of your energy into learning a subject inside and out, and that's what we do.

By the time the library closes and Holly and I walk down the boardwalk to our rooms, our heads are swimming with so much Latin that we forget to be uncomfortable around each other for the first time in a week.

Somehow, I find myself hanging out in Holly's room as if nothing is weird between us.

"Well, it doesn't have to be weird," I say, when she decides it's a good idea to bring this up.

Holly says, "I know. It was stupid to mention it."

But she obviously wants to talk about it.

I say, "We don't have to pretend it didn't happen, you know. I don't know about you, but I'm not particularly interested in fake relationships right now. If you have something to say to me, I want to hear it."

Holly looks away, pauses, and then looks back at me. "I don't really know what to say," she says, "I just don't know how to act around you anymore. And I hate it. I hate that my heart is a little bit broken even though I haven't actually lost anything."

Holly's not one of those trashy ex-junkies that you always sit beside in public transit, but there's a certain quality that girls who have done a lot of meth get, and as sober as she may be, Holly has that quality. She really is a beautiful girl, with her incredible hair and her perfect skin and her slender frame. But she's got this lost, slightly wild, reckless and manic air about her that makes it difficult for people to like her. And she's shyer than anyone I've ever met, so that makes it even harder.

What I'm trying to say is that I know how important Holly's relationship with me is. I'm really all she's got in Avonroy.

So I tell her, "Holly, I'll be honest with you; when I realized that you thought we were more than friends, it scared the hell out of me."

"I'm sorry," she says quickly.

I shake my head, trying to figure out what I'm trying to say. "You have to stop apologizing for my own complete lack of self-identity."

Rolling her eyes, Holly says, "You're just so damned charming and well-spoken. You make me feel like… urgh."

I shift uncomfortably. Everyone uses the word "charming" when they describe me. I don't know if I want to be assigned the same adjective as the media always uses for my brother.

I have a famous brother. I guess I've probably never mentioned that before.

Holly says. "You put on such a good show. You're magnetic. I was just… infatuated. And I hated myself for it. And then you told me you were gay, and…"

She lets her hair fall in front of her eyes, and then quickly changes her mind and pushes in back behind her ear. "I mean, it's so easy to forget that you're a real person. With real problems." She looks horrified, and adds quickly, "Not that being gay is a problem."

It's so plain that she's fighting tears that I'm afraid to move or say anything to spook her. I let her say what she needs to say.

"But I mean… I've never been the girl who got crushes on boys-who obsessed over men. But then I met you, and I became that girl. It all seemed too good to be true. You weren't really interested in being around anyone else."

She hangs her head. "Fuck. I hate myself, Blaine. I'm so sorry. But yeah. You told me you were gay, and it just made this whole idolized picture of you I had in my brain fall to pieces. You're just as fucked up as I am. And I have no right to have a broken heart because you are who you are, but somehow I do."

She is crying now, so I put my arm around her. "Sweetie, everyone has the right to a broken heart."

She sniffles and makes an embarrassed, apologetic noise. "You need to stop," she whispers, "Being so perfect. Stop saying all the right things. Give me a reason to hate you a little so that I can be your friend."

I say, "Holly, I am fucked up. I have this pathological need to make a good impression-so much that I apparently forget to even let my very best friend in on a huge part of my identity."

She squeezes my hand. I say, "If my sexuality never came up in conversation, it's because there was never a moment to fit it in while maintaining my stupid, immature façade of charisma."

She giggles weakly.

I say, "It's my fault. And I'm sorry. And honestly, it scares me to death that I broke your heart. Because that's the guy I really really don't want to be. I went through _so_ much shit for being gay when I was a younger. I swore I'd never apologize for being who I am. And yet somehow today here I am. And I have no idea how I became this guy. And I am apologizing."

"Don't," she says, her voice suddenly sharper, "Don't you dare apologize for being gay. That's not the point. It's not really about you."

Quickly, I say, "I'm not apologizing for being gay. I'm just apologizing for being the guy who is too ambiguous and fake for his closest friend to really know him."

She studies my face carefully, and shakes her head. "You're not fake, Blaine. You've just got walls up. And that's okay. We all have those."

We sit here for a moment in silence as she stops crying and wipes the tears away. I say, "Holly, you'll find a guy who can really love you. Maybe that's not the cliché you want to hear right now, but I feel like it needs to be said."

She laughs in a hopeless sort of way. "Fine," she says, "Maybe you're right."

"I really mean it, Holly."

Biting her lip, Holly says, "I don't think you get how hard it is for me. To meet people. Talk to them. Make friends. It comes so easy for you. I can't do it."

"Well, you made friends with me."

She nods. "Yeah. But if you'd had any interest in hanging out with anyone else… I mean, I can do one-on-one stuff. But as soon there's more than one person in a room… well, you've seen what I'm like in class."

I have seen. "You're shy," I say, "But that doesn't mean that you'll never find someone."

Shaking her head, Holly says, "I'm more than shy. But I guess it's impossible for an extrovert like you to understand."

The weird thing is that I very much consider myself an introvert. But I think that there's a big difference between being introverted and being shy.

I tell her, "Maybe I _don't_ understand. But I care. So talk to me. Is this why you're so upset? You think you won't ever meet anyone as easy to talk to as me?"

She nods. "That's exactly what I'm afraid of," she whispers, "Because it's so fucking hard. And it's so so so so so much harder when I'm sober. Did you know that I dropped of high school _after_ my first stint in rehab? I was sober. But I couldn't handle being around so many people without the drugs. I couldn't function. I just had panic attacks and cried in bathrooms. And then I was so ashamed of dropping out that I went back to drugs."

My heart pangs for her. I'd always known she was shy, but I'd never realized that she struggled this much. "Have you ever talked to anyone about this? I mean like a therapist?"

Nodding, Holly says, "Sure. They tell me I have Social Anxiety Disorder. Avoidant Personality Disorder. Depression. Whatever. Does it matter? The point is that I can function sober at Avonroy because I have you. You make me feel safe. Comfortable. Confident. Pretty. But now I feel like I've fucked that whole thing up."

Jesus Christ. Poor Holly.

Still, if she trusts me enough to open up about this, I'm pretty sure her and I are going to be okay.

"I love you, Holly. It's not fucked up. If anything, it's stronger. As long as you can accept that we're the very best of friends… which can be more powerful than being lovers if we let it."

Holly rolls her eyes. "Yeah," she says quietly, "Yeah okay. Okay."


	15. Nobody Wants to Hear my Story

**Chapter Fifteen: Nobody Wants to Hear my Story**

"So you are actually gay, huh?"

Jeremy corners me as I leave the gym after working out tonight. I'm sweaty and exhausted and my shoulder is killing me, and Kurt's boyfriend is the last person I want to talk to.

But I grin casually and say, "Yeah, I heard you and Kurt had a bet about that. Sorry. Actually gay."

He shakes his head with a teasing wink. "Damn. I really do owe Kurt money then." He pauses. "Still. I can't say it's a shame."

His grin is too suggestive. I don't reply.

"Anyway," Jeremy says, "You're in Creative Writing, correct?"

I nod. Jeremy grimaces. "I don't think I could do that. Spend all day inside your head? Awful."

So he wants to talk.

"And what program are you in?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

He straightens up a little and says "Theatre Arts." He says it in this fake-pompous, possibly fake-British way, as though making fun of himself, but in a way that tells me that he actually does take it way too seriously.

Fuck this guy.

I say, "I should have guessed."

"Yeah sure. You pick us all out a mile away. We're all attention whores. Trading song and dance for love." He rolls his eyes with a self-satisfied little smile and says, "I can't get enough."

Holy fucking shit, I could have become this guy.

"Cool," I say, "Good for you."

Jeremy nods. "There's something genuinely magical about pouring all of your consciousness into complete make-believe out on that stage."

Why does he feel the need to start a conversation like this right now when all I want to do is shower and collapse onto my bed?

I say, "Cool. Yeah, I used to do some musical theatre and stuff."

His eyes narrow in on me with an unfathomable twinkle. "Of course you did."

I can't tell if he's being condescending or not.

"I used to compete against Kurt in high school show choir, actually."

I have no idea why I'm telling him this.

Now his smirk is definitely condescending. "Right," says Jeremy, "Kurt talks about that sometimes. Glee club." He laughs. "Never did that myself."

I shrug. "It was a long time ago."

"But you're a writer now, huh? Well. Somebody's got to build the characters that we actors get to play with, I guess."

Seriously; fuck this guy. "Yeah. I guess I'd rather build something from nothing than be a puppet in something someone else built."

With a badly concealed scowl, Jeremy says, "To each their own."

I nod.

Still, once I'm back in my dorm room and trying to finish another chapter of my novel, I can't help but think that it would be so so so much easier just to be a puppet.

My novel is kind of a mess. I know what story I'm trying to tell, I just don't know how to tell it. And I don't know how to organize the hundreds of scenes I have to write in order to make this thing a whole.

In my story, two teenage mind-readers cross each other's paths. Imagine reading someone else' mind and finding your own thoughts already in there. Imagine getting trapped inside a mind that is also trapped inside of yours. Do you become one person with two bodies? Do you implode from the complete confusion? Or do you fall madly in love?

And how do you write about people's thoughts? It's not like people think in complete sentences.

I have a feeling that I've gotten in over my head with this whole thing. I don't know enough about other people think to try to develop characters with thought patterns distinct enough for a reader to differentiate the two once they intertwine.

I have a feeling that I'm way too self-absorbed to ever really make it as a writer. The fact that I was so completely oblivious to Holly's crush on me, and to her struggle with social anxiety makes this pretty clear. I still can't really wrap my head around how anyone can feel as hopeless and isolated as Holly does simply because of shyness. And if I can't understand my best friend, how can I create understandable fiction?

People write about what they know, and all I know about is me. Nobody wants to hear _my_ story.

And there's this voice that back of my head that keeps asking me what I'm doing here. Why am I wasting my time with writing? What an incredibly frivolous and insignificant thing to waste so much energy on. This story literally means nothing to anyone but me. The writing problems I'm trying to solve are problems that have absolutely no significance in the world outside of my head.

I will make absolutely no difference in the world by finishing this novel.

So I have no idea why writing this story seems like the most important part of my life right now.


	16. My Natural State is DoucheBag

**Chapter Sixteen: My Natural State is Douche-Bag**

Holly and I are in my dorm room, trying to decide how to spend our Friday night, when Kurt overhears.

"There's a party at Jeremy's tonight," Kurt says, "You guys should come."

I grimace and turn to Holly, but she's nodding. "Cool," she says, "That could be fun.

Then she meets my eyes and seems less certain. "Don't you want to?"

Kurt says, "It'll be fun. Mostly theatre kids, so it'll be a lot of karaoke, improv games, stand-up, dancing, etc… but if you're not into that, it's worth it just to come and watch the show. Jeremy's got some insanely talented friends."

Holly says, "I'll go if Blaine does."

This is exactly the kind of party that I would have been all about two years ago, and in a half-forgotten sort of way, it does still sound pretty fun. I say, "Sure. We could stop by."

Kurt grins. "Totally. I'll even be your designated driver if that'll help convince you."

Holly and I exchange looks, and I say, "No, we'll find our own way there and back."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Neither of us drink anyway."

"Okay," says Kurt, "Well, Jeremy will be pleased. He keeps telling me that I should get you to hang out with us."

I grimace, and Holly notices and giggles a little. Kurt says, "Well, I'm heading down there now. I'll see you later?"

"Yeah. What time?"

Kurt says, "Around nine? Do you remember where Jeremy's house is?"

I nod. "See you there."

So Kurt leaves, and I turn to Holly. "Are you serious about this? You really want to go to a party where you won't know anyone?"

She nods. "Yeah, I'm serious. I'm always up for a party. You're the one who always wants to stay home."

"I just thought it would be tough for you."

Holly is now standing at the mirror, examining her hair. "Of course it will be tough," she says, "But how am I ever going to get better if I don't challenge myself?"

I shrug. She says, "See, Blaine, the difference between me and you is that you avoid people because you have very little interest in being social. I have the interest. I'm just a little bit completely terrified of people. But you're _good_ with people. So I'll stay by your side and ease my way into it. It'll be fun."

Defensively, I say, "You make me sound completely anti-social. I like people."

Holly says, "Sure. I get the feeling you used to be quite the people-person. Probably the most popular kid in school. Always the centre of attention?"

I shrug. "Yeah. That used to be me. Does that bother you?"

"No," says Holly, "But I think it bothers you."

Well shit.

She says, "You've got walls up, Blaine. You're not shy, but you keep everything tightly contained within you. You speak to people using carefully thought out and always eloquent phrases. You're fascinating and intelligent, but you never let yourself just relax and have fun. Even I don't get to see it very often."

She's right, but I don't like the way she says it like it's a bad thing.

Holly continues, "So of course you don't want to go to a party. The more people there are around, the harder it will be to keep everything contained. You don't want to get all caught up in actually having fun and forget to maintain your poised, thoughtful, brooding persona."

"Am I really that much of a pretentious asshole?" I ask.

"No," Holly says quickly, "I didn't mean it like that. I'd never call you pretentious. You're one of the most sincere people I know. The way you talk… you're honest. I've never met anyone so open to candid conversation. It's really special. All I'm trying to say is that maybe you need to stop taking everything so seriously. Talk about something trivial. Laugh a little. You know?"

She's right again, and now I can see why it might be bad.

"So I need to loosen up. That's what you're saying?"

Nodding, Holly says, "Yeah. Is that awful for me to say? I think you get too caught up in your own thoughts and ideas and problems that you forget to just live and enjoy yourself. And maybe you're afraid to, because of how out-of-control you know that partying can get. But it _is_ possible to find balance, Blaine."

"Okay," I say, "Yeah. I see your point. So I'm going to the party. I'll try to have some fun. Just don't think less of me if it turns out I'm incapable of having fun without turning into a complete asshole."

Because I have a very real fear that my natural state is douche-bag.


	17. My Best Pocahontas Impression

**Chapter Seventeen: My Best Pocahontas Impression**

Holly drives us down the village, and we give each other a pep talk before we go into Jeremy's house.

"We stay sober, we stay calm, and we stick together. The minute one of us wants to leave, we're gone."

Holly nods. "Staying sober being the key. Don't let me tell you that alcohol or doesn't count. It counts. I know I'm a meth junkie, but even pot counts. It all counts."

"Yeah. Well. Here's hoping it won't be that kind of party."

"We'll see."

So we treck through the snow and up to Jeremy's door, which opens before we even knock on it. "You came!" Kurt hugs us both and pulls us inside.

Jeremy lives with a bunch of other theatre students in a big and ugly rental house. There are fifteen or so other people at the party, gathered in various rooms throughout the house.

Kurt takes Holly and I around to introduce us to everyone, ending in the living room, where four girls, including Holly's roommate, Rita, are sipping wine and playing Mario Kart on Jeremy's Nintendo.

"Woah woah woah," jokes Kurt, "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to drink and drive?"

The girls at the controls all giggle and steer their characters off of the road. Rita says, "Well, Jeremy and Steve and them were all being pretentious ass-hats, watching some foreign film downstairs, so we decided to start a real party up here. You want a turn, Kurt?"

Kurt shakes his head, and pours himself a glass of wine.

Mario Kart is forgotten and Kurt introduces me and Holly. Someone suggests making a couch bowl. Before we really understand what is going on, Holly and I find ourselves crammed cozily into a jumble of arms and legs in a bowl made by pushing two couches together, face-to-face.

It's weirdly comfortable and intimate, and I immediately find myself participating in a lengthy, giggling conversation about the stuffed sperm toy that a girl names Ivy produces from her purse.

"I feel like this little guy could be a movie star," Kurt comments, holding it up and demonstrating the star quality of the weirdly adorable sperm.

Rita giggles, pouring herself another glass of wine. "The Spermfather."

Ivy laughs. "No. Dark Sperm Rising."

"Snow White and the Seven Sperms."

"The Perks of being a Sperm."

"Lord of the Sperm."

I grin. "Harry Potter and the Deathly Sperm."

Kurt adds, "No. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Sperm."

"Or Harry Potter and the Chamber of Sperm."

"The Order of the Sperm."

"The Philosopher's Sperm."

"The Prisoner of Sperm?"

"Yeah. And the Half-Sperm Prince..."

"What the fuck are you guys talking about?"

Jeremy and a whole group of people enter the room, and the look on their faces when they hear what we're talking about sends everyone in the couch bowl into giggling hysterics.

"We're going to play Improvapalooza. Who's in?"

Kurt mutters to us, "It's an acting game."

Holly and I sit still to be sure we're not voluntold to participate, but it's not really an issue, since the party is teeming with actors and attentions whores who immediately start fighting for a place in the game. Kurt rearranges the room to accommodate the rest of us watching.

We pass the next hour shouting out characters and settings as the players make their way through an elaborate improv board game, acting out a full two-act play about a pair of elderly gardeners off the top of their heads.

I honestly cannot remember ever laughing quite so much. Kurt has some insanely talented friends, and Jeremy is one of them, as annoying as it may be to admit. His timing and sense of comedy is astoundingly good.

Everyone is pretty drunk by the time Improvapalooza ends and Jeremy starts setting up for karaoke.

I turn to Holly. "Having fun?" I ask.

She nods with a small grin. "This is cool," she says, quietly to be sure nobody else can hear what she's saying. "I've never been to a party like this before. Amazing."

She's been sitting right by my side all night, not speaking to anyone else, but laughing and clapping and enjoying herself none the less.

I agree. "Way cool. So you want to stick around a bit longer?"

Holly says, "As long as you do. I know I'm being awkward and quiet, but I'm still having fun."

"You're not awkward," I assure her, "And there are enough drama queens here that you being quiet is appreciated."

She blushes, and nods. "Okay cool."

Jeremy starts off karaoke with a rendition of a Micheal Buble song, and I get a guilty sort of satisfaction out of his highly uneven and pitchy performance.

I watch a bunch of other karaoke attempts, most of which are pretty good, which is to be expected, seeing as half the kids here have had professional vocal training.

"Damn," whispers Holly, "Don't you just feel incredibly inadequate right now?"

I grin. "We're not the only non-performers here. Writing's way cooler anyway."

But at that moment, Kurt pokes me. He's pretty drunk. He says, "Your turn, Blaine."

I shake my head. "No way."

Kurt shakes his head and drags me off the couch by the arm. "Come on. Sing. Just like old times in Ohio."

I groan. "If you're going to play the Ohio card, you have to sing with me."

Grinning, Kurt says, "Okay. Let's show them how we do it Show-Choir style. Maybe a little Disney?"

I laugh, and several people wolf-whistle as Kurt and I move to the front and queue up Colors of the Wind.

"The writer and the designer, huh?" comments one of Jeremy's room-mates, "Did anyone bring ear-plugs?"

Kurt sticks out his tongue, and Jeremy says, "No no, these two were in high school _glee club_." He smirks. "So they've got to be fantastic."

Everyone laughs, and I turn to Kurt, who does a good job of turning his annoyance into a casual, self-deprecating shrug.

I find myself holding a microphone with all eyes in the room on me, and my knees feel a little bit weird.

It's been a long time.

But the tone of Jeremy's voice is ringing in my ears, so when the music starts, I clear my throat and give my best Pocahontas impression. Kurt finds a harmony above me, and the jeering cat-calls stop. Kurt and I meet each other's eye, and break into wide grins.

He lets me take a solo, and then I let him take one. We harmonize for the chorus and then crescendo into the bridge. We sound fucking awesome, and Kurt has this infectiously magnetic stage presence that I can't help but mirror.

His voice is just as hauntingly gorgeous as I remember from high school.

Performing feels wonderful, but I know I'm going to throw up anyway.

When we belt out the last few notes of the song, there is a momentary stunned silence as every jaw in the room hangs open and every eye stares at the pair of us.


	18. Who the Fuck Are You?

**Chapter Eighteen: Who the Fuck Are You?**

Holly is the first to start clapping, and then the room sort of explodes in cheering and clapping.

I feel a rush of satisfied adrenaline, and a second later, I feel like I've been punched in the face by a vivid flashback of a phone ringing and my life falling apart. I feel this weird tug under my stomach and I'm transported suddenly back to a hundred different stages, bowing to a hundred different crowds.

And now I'm back in Montana, a million miles from Broadway, feeling that familliar rush of performance ecstasy, and I don't think I can stand it.

I can't feel my feet.

"Jesus fucking Christ," says Rita, "Way to completely show us all up. You two should _definitely _be cast as Disney princesses immediately."

Kurt hugs me tightly and beams out at his friends.

My heart is pounding.

"_Damn_, Blaine," says Jeremy, "That was _hot. _Talk about a voice. What're you wasting your time with writing for?"

Kurt's eyes narrow, and he pointedly takes Jeremy's hand in his. Jeremy doesn't say anything to him.

I shrug apologetically at Kurt. My pulse is racing.

I take my seat again beside Holly, whose mouth is still hanging open in shock. "Who the fuck are you?" she hisses, "Why didn't you tell me you could sing like that?"

I grimace. My head is spinning.

Holly says, "Blaine, you're really pale. Are you okay?"

My mind is being prodded and jabbed by nauseating flashes of memory as the familiar applause-generated adrenaline floods through my veins like poison. I can't see straight.

I shake my head and whisper, "I need some space."

Holly drags me back to my feet and pulls me down the hall to the bathroom, where she closes the door, and I find myself throwing up in the toilet.

The look on Holly's face makes the insane, pulsing panicky whirlwind of flashbacks and self-hate dissolve instantly.

Get yourself together, Blaine.

I'm sitting on the floor. Pale, clammy, and trembling.

I stand up and rinse my mouth up at the sink. Flush the vomit down the toilet. Look at Holly. Say nothing.

I sit down on the edge of the bathtub and close my eyes again.

I can shrug this off.

Holly says tentatively, "Blaine?"

I take a deep breath, give my head a quick shake, and open my eyes again. "Fuck," I say, "Sorry about that. I must have reacted to something I ate earlier."

She nods skeptically. "Right. Something you ate."

I say, "I have food allergies."

Holly says, "Blaine, you're shaking like mad."

"I feel like crap," I say, "Maybe we should go home."

She finds a clean cloth in a drawer and dampens it. "I don't think you should go anywhere right now, she says, folding the cloth and putting it on my forehead, "You're clammy as fuck."

I slump down to the floor and lean against the tub.

Tentatively, she asks, "Blaine, when was the last time you sang in front of people?"

I stare at her. "I don't know," I lie quickly, "It's been a long time."

Holly says, "Blaine, why didn't you tell me you were a singer?"

"I'm not," I say quickly, "Not anymore."

"You are," she says firmly, "I just heard you. Nobody sings that well with so much confidence and stage presence without experience and training."

I look at her for a few moments. Her face is pinched in half-concealed concern, and she's watching me so intently that I wonder if she can see the lies inside my head.

I sigh. "It was another life," I say, "And it's not a life I'm ever going back to. So for all intents and purposes, I'm not a singer."

She says, "But you were."

"Sure," I say. "Singer. Actor. Performer. Whatever. What do you want me to say? I was a rising star?"

"Were you?'

Shrugging, I say, "Probably. I studied Vocal Performace at NYU. I got a role on Broadway in my second year."

Holly looks like she doesn't quite believe me. "Broadway? So why have you never this before?"

I say, "You want to know when the last time I sang in front of people was? It was November 25th, two years ago. Opening night of my Broadway debut. I was sober for the first time in a very long time, because I wanted to experience it for real."

Holly nods, listening intently.

"And then halfway through the first act, right after my first solo, I noticed my cell-phone ringing backstage. I literally felt like every molecule in my body was about to explode from the complete exhilaration of the performance I'd just given and the applause I'd just given. And so even though I had to be back on stage in about three minutes, I answered the phone."

Grabbing my hand, Holly says "Oh Blaine."

She already knows how this story is going to end. I say, "And it was my dad on the other line. I hadn't spoken to him since I was fourteen, so I had the wild, selfish thought that he was calling to apologize and tell me he was proud of me."

I shudder. I say, "But no. He was calling to let me know that I wasn't welcome at my mother's funeral, no matter what my brother Cooper might tell me."

I feel another momentary wave of nausea, and Holly gasps. "Oh my _god_."

I say, "I'd been ignoring my brother's calls and emails for months, because he was always on my case about doing too many drugs or taking advantage of Mom. So I hadn't even known that she'd killed herself two days before that."

Holly scoots closer to me and puts her head on my shoulder. "Oh sweetie. I can't imagine."

I say, "So I walked right out of that theatre and spent the next two years trying to get high enough to have the courage to get back on a stage."

"But you never got the courage."

"Nope," I say, "Not until tonight. And it made me puke. So I won't be trying it again any time soon."

Frowning, Holly asks, "But why? Just because you associate it with the moment you found out about your mom?"

I'm surprisingly calm now, talking about this analytically as if it hasn't kept me up at night for years.

"You have to understand that I didn't have a lot of real relationships in my life. My brother is ten years older than me and moved out when I was seven. My dad disowned me when he found out that I was gay. And for years, the thrill of performing and being adored was more important to me than friendship. I never really had friends-just people that I got high with, and people who I shared a stage with."

Holly looks like she wants to something, but she changes her mind at the last moment, and lets me keep talking.

I say, "But my mom and I were always close. She was always on my side. We could always talk about anything and everything. Even when I was at boarding school in highs school. And then I moved to New York and got so caught up in my love of drugs and applause that I neglected our relationship and ignored her even when I knew she was depressed and lonely and that most of it was my fault."

"Why on earth was it your fault?"

I say, "Because my mom was a Lutheran pastor whose congregation fired her when they found out she had a gay son. And she could never get another job."

Holly takes a sharp breath of air. I add, "And my dad is another Lutheran pastor who disowned me when he found out I was gay. He told her she was going to hell for not doing the same. But neither of them believed in divorce, so they had to stay together, despite the fact that he barely spoke to her except to try to convince her that supporting me was a sin."

"Fuck."

I nod. "She was miserable, and it was my fault. And then I stopped calling. And she killed herself. And if I hadn't been so convinced that an audience and a spotlight was more important than our relationship, I might have prevented it. So it might be long time before I trust myself to take performing seriously again."

There's a quiet knock at the door, and Holly and I both jump about a foot into the air. Kurt opens the door slowly.

"Hey, you two," he says, "I'm sorry to interrupt… But there's an insane blizzard blowing in, and if you want to make it up the mountain back to campus tonight, you're going to have to leave right now."

He makes eye contact with me and I'm positive that he's overheard most of what I just confessed to Holly.


	19. We're young, We're talented

**Chapter Nineteen: We're young, We're talented, We're beautiful**

Holly and I jump to our feet immediately, but before we even really acknowledge Kurt, she gives me a long, quiet hug.

I really don't need her to say anything, and in fact I hope that she doesn't. I still feel a little queasy.

We go back out into the living room, where we see the furious whirling of snow outside the window.

"Fuck," I say, "Are you okay with driving in this?"

Shrugging Holly mutters, "I've driven in worse. And I'd rather be out there than in here right now, honestly."

Almost everyone else is very drunk and grating on my already unsteady nerves. I agree fervently.

But Jeremy stops us at the door. "No way," he says, "I can't let you drive up that road in this weather. Give me your keys."

Holly's eyes widen, and she turns to me, clearly expecting me to do the talking.

I say, "We're both sober, and we're ready to go home. Don't worry about us."

Jeremy shakes his head. "I'm drunk," he says, "So my judgement isn't good. I'm not taking any chances."

He puts his hand on my shoulder sloppily. "Do you know how many people have almost killed themselves on that road? You can stay here tonight. I'm not going to have it on my conscience if the storm swallows you alive."

I hate that I kind of respect him for being responsible.

But at that moment, we hear a thundering crash from outside, and the power flickers off. Everyone screams and goes to the window.

The furious winds have uprooted a tree and thrown it up into the overhead power lines, pulling down wires and snapping several poles all down the street.

As we squint through the thick snow, whipping through the air like wind-powered bullets at the mess now blocking Jeremy's street, we hear another loud crash, and turn quickly to see another tree crashing into the side of a house across the street, smashing shingles off the room and pulling down eaves troughs.

We all watch the blizzard's wreckage in the dark for a few surreal moments, and then we hear sirens in the distance.

"Fucking hell," slurs Jeremy, breaking the silence, "This storm means business. Nobody's leaving here tonight. The road's blocked anyway. Make yourselves comfortable."

Holly grabs my arm. I feel a little nauseous again.

We find a seat on a couch in the corner while Kurt goes to look for some candles, and Jeremy passes around some chocolate cookies.

"What kind of cookies are these?" I ask, even though I feel too sick to really be interested anyway.

Jeremy grins and says, "Kurt and I invented them together this afternoon. We call them Double Chocolate Awesome Everything cookies."

How fucking adorable.

"What's in them?"

"Chocolate chips, pecans, marshmallows, rice crisp cereal, M&Ms…"

"Pot?" asks Holly, giving Jeremy a shrewd look.

His eyes narrow, and he smiles. "Uh… no. No pot. You've got to have a few. We made tons, and trust me, they're awesome."

Holly takes a couple, but I decline. "I'm allergic to pecans."

Jeremy looks inappropriately disappointed that I won't eat his cookies, but I don't dwell on it.

Soon the room is full of people curled up together in the living room, listening to the storm in the flickering light of heavily scented candles. People have given up hope that they'll be able to go outside anytime soon, so all etiquette about not smoking indoors has been forgotten.

My head is still swimming with thoughts triggered by karaoke, and my stomach is still rebelling against what I imagine are a lot of weird emotional chemicals clawing through my body.

I sit there, tuning out the conversation while I evaluate my current emotional state and try to rationalize the violent anxiety that performing just triggered.

Almost an hour has passed before Holly starts rubbing my shoulders, and I realize that I can't really breathe.

"I need some air," I whisper to Holly, sliding quickly out from between her and Kurt on the couch.

I wander through the house in search of a quiet, clear-aired sanctuary where I can attempt not to collapse in asthmatic defeat while trapped in my roommate's boyfriend's house.

I end up on a couch in the basement, eyes closed and fingers curled over my inhaler, trying to stay as calm as possible while I breathe slowly and uncomfortably while I wonder how I'm going to get through the night if people keep lighting cigarettes in the house.

Despite my history of substance abuse, it wasn't until Avonroy that I ever spent much time around smokers. Neither of my parents smoked, and even at my wildest, I only ever partied with self-obsessed, high-functioning, ultra-wealthy addicts who had way too much pride to stoop to an addiction as common, obvious, and smelly as nicotine.

But it seems like everyone at Avonroy smokes, and the longer I'm here, the more apparent it becomes that my body isn't equipped to deal with the clouds of second-hand smoke I'm exposed to every time I go outside, or get trapped inside during a freak blizzard.

I hear someone coming down the stairs, and I assume that it's Holly until he's sitting right next to me, reeking of red wine and asking, "Are you alright?"

My stomach drops a little, and I slap Jeremy's hand away as he tries to pry my inhaler out of my hand.

"Asthma?" he asks, "You don't sound so good."

I really prefer not to be around other people when I feel like I'm breathing through a straw. There's just no way to appear charming and cool when it hurts to inhale, and as Holly pointed out earlier, I have a pathological need to appear charming and cool.

I mutter, "I'm fine."

Jeremy says, "Yeah you are. Damn, Blaine. Your karaoke tonight? Unbelievable. You showed up Rita, and she's been on Broadway."

I've been on Broadway too.

I shake my head. "You're drunk."

He nods. "And you're sexy as fuck."

And suddenly his lips are on my lips and they taste like cigarettes and wine.

I'm so startled and angry that I drop my inhaler, push his face off of mine and slap him across the cheek, wrenching something in my shoulder.

I refuse to let on how much it hurts.

Jermey isn't phased by the slap. He grins drunkenly and leans forward to try to kiss me again. I get up off the couch and cry, "_Not_ okay, Jeremy! What is wrong with you?"

He sits up and grins at me. "Oh come on," he says, "We're young, we're talented, we're beautiful… We're alone…"

I say, "And I'm not a whore! You have a boyfriend, Jeremy."

I'm starting to cough.

Picking up my inhaler, he says, "Kurt won't mind."

I grab the inhaler away from him, and say, "You are unbelievable. I'm leaving."

And I go back upstairs, still coughing and shaking with anger at Jeremy.


	20. You Deserve So Much Better

**Chapter Twenty: You Deserve So Much better**

So I'm not doing so good. I'm angry, I'm anxious, I'm asthmatic… and the power still isn't on and the house is still full of drunken actors and artists.

A window in one of the bedrooms on the west side of the house has been smashed by another falling power pole. There's so much snow accumulating outside that the first poles the fell two hours ago are already buried. The temperature in the house is dropping rapidly without the electric furnace, and our smartphones tell us that its almost forty degrees below zero outside.

Everyone is too wasted to pretend that they're not having apocalypse feelings. Everyone is talking about the end of the world.

I sit down next to Rita and a bunch of girls, and I realize pretty quickly that they're all stoned out of their minds.

"Oh Jesus," I say, "What are you guys on?"

Rita giggles, and says, "Double Chocolate Awesome Everything cookies."

My stomach feels like it has been dropped off of a fifty-story building. "Are you kidding me?" I ask, "What was in them?"

A blonde girl says, "Everything."

"Mostly weed though," laughs Rita.

I start coughing again and swear under my breath, heart-rate suddenly doubled. "Where's Holly?" I ask sharply, looking around frantically, still coughing.

"Haven't seen her," Rita says, uninterested.

I scramble back to my feet and go off in search of my friend.

I still really can't breathe very well.

I find Holly sitting on the floor with Jeremy and some guy whose name I think is Steve. They're playing cards and she's relaxed and giggly and obviously enjoying herself.

I sit down next to her and meet her eyes. Her pupils are so diluted that I almost drown in them. "Fuck, Holly," I say, "You're stoned."

She goes suddenly very still, and I turn to Jeremy, livid.

"You fucking _asshole,"_ I hiss, "You told her they didn't have pot in them."

Jeremy laughs. "It's just marijuana, Blaine. It's not a big deal. You both needed to loosen up a little. It's no harm done."

I want so badly to smack him in the face.

I turn to Holly. In the ten seconds that since I made eye contact with her, she's started crying. I'm starting to wheeze audibly again. "It _is_ a big deal," I spit, sitting back down again to put my arms around her. "When she's two days away from celebrating three months clean and sober."

Steve swears and punches Jeremy in the arm. "You _dick_," he says, "Why would you do that?"

Holly hides her face in my shoulder, and Jeremy appraises her quietly. He says, "You girl here was a little too quick to guess what was in those cookies to really be fooled by me, Blaine. She knew what she was doing. Don't put this on me."

I slap him across the face. "Fuck you!" I gasp, as he stares at me in shock. I cough, and say, "You are a _horrible _person!"

Jeremy frowns. "And you need to calm down, Blaine. Go get some air. Holly's fine. It's just a little weed. I'll apologize."

Holly whispers, "Just go, Blaine. You don't have to worry about me. I'm a big girl."

But that's so out of character for her that I know I can't leave.

Still, Steve takes me by the arm and pulls me out of the room, and I'm not really strong enough to prevent it.

"Jeremy's a douche," says Steve, "But he's not a villain. I promise you, he'd have never done this if he'd known she was an addict. Just let him talk to her."

I say, "This is so not okay. I just… fuck."

It really hurts to breathe.

Steve sits me down in the kitchen. "Just calm down," he says, "I'm going to find Kurt."

I lean back in the chair, take a drag off of my inhaler, and try to slow my breathing back down to an even, if painful and raspy, rhythm.

I have no idea what I'm feeling right now.

"Blaine?" I open my eyes after I don't know how long, and Kurt is sitting the chair beside me.

I look at him and don't say anything.

Kurt says, "Steve told me about Holly. I'm sorry."

I say, "_You're_ not the one who should be apologizing."

Defensively, he says, "Look, Jeremy didn't mean any harm. And it was just pot. It's not like he laced them with heroin or something."

Rolling my eyes, I snap, "That's not the point. You don't know what it's like. Trying to get clean. To stay clean. Holly made the choice not to get high anymore. She made the choice to stay sober. It doesn't matter what substance it is. It is _unbelievably _unfair for anyone else to take that choice away from her. And that's what Jeremy did."

Kurt frowns. "Fuck," he says.

I cough deeply and ignore him.

"He's not a horrible person, you know," says Kurt, "He's just a guy with a lot of problems who isn't willing to let anything get in the way of him doing what he wants to do."

"We all have problems, Kurt," I say, "And we all want what we want. But we all don't hurt other people to get it."

Kurt says, "I know. But you don't know him, Blaine. He's more than you think."

"I don't know why you're defending him. He tried to get me to have sex with him, Kurt. You deserve _so _much better."

Kurt's eyes flash a little. "He did? Did he kiss you?"

"Yeah. And I slapped him across the face. _Tell_ me you're not going to stay with him."

Sighing, Kurt says, "You wouldn't understand. Jeremy is so much more than what he seems. He's been through a lot. He's a cocky, self-absorbed asshole, but it's only because he was forced to apologize for who he was for way too long, and he's not willing to do it anymore."

"I don't care how hard his life is, Kurt. The point is that he treats you like crap. It doesn't matter why."

"He doesn't treat me like crap," Kurt says, "He treats everyone else like crap."

"He cheats on you. He ignores you. He makes fun of you."

Kurt's resolute defiance falters a little. He says, "I know it probably seems that way. But it's different when it's just me and him. He's different. And I dunno. For now, that's enough for me. We helped each other through some tough stuff. I'm not gunna give up on him just yet."

I shake my head. "Whatever, Kurt."

I think that Kurt is going to say something else, but instead he just walks away.

This storm cannot pass fast enough. I need to get out of this house.


	21. He's an Enigma

**Chapter Twenty-One: He's an Enigma**

It's a long night. Jeremy puts Holly to bed on the couch downstairs, which I'm begrudgingly thankful for, even though I think it's a little condescending to think she needs to be put to bed, and I'm pretty sure that the blanket he gives her is actually a carpet.

Upstairs, with the power out, a sleepy, candle-lit sing-along starts in the living room, fueled by marijuana and wine.

I feel like in another life, I could have been a guy who would be right up there with them, having a blast.

But I'm furious at Jeremy, annoyed with Kurt, worried about Holly, and I really just want to go home.

Even though I'm not sure I really understand the meaning of the word 'home' anymore.

I can't go upstairs without feeling like I'm being choked to death by the growing clouds of candle, cigarette, and marijuana smoke anyway, so I stay in the basement with Holly and the two or three other people who are attempting to sleep.

I'm having trouble sleeping because I can't stop coughing and I can't stop thinking, so I just wait for the storm to pass and hope that the village clears the roads sooner rather than later.

But the time the storm blows over, I'm close to tears just because my whole upper body hurts so much from the strain to breathe, and it's not getting any easier.

I feel a little bit like I have sponges in my lungs where the air should be.

Jeremy comes downstairs about an hour after the sun starts to come up to a freezing cold, clear blue sky.

I pretend to be asleep so that I don't have to figure out what the appropriate level of polite anger is that I'm supposed to show toward him.

But I eavesdrop on him talking to a couple of girls on the futon in the corner.

"I just called the people at the town hall."

"And?"

"Apparently half the power lines in the county are down, and the state wasn't exactly prepared for it. They have to bring in new cable and poles from all over North America. It could be days before we get power back."

"Fuck. This is a nightmare. When are the roads going to be clear? I've got rehearsal on campus at noon, and there's no way my car's making it through all this snow."

Jeremy says, "They're working out from the shed where they store the snow plow. Once they get to the hospital and the main drag, they'll do this street. But there are trees and power poles down all over the place, so god only knows how long that will take."

"How'd you convince them to come to this street first?"

"Well, he'll never admit it, but I'm pretty sure Blaine should have been in the emergency room hours ago."

"Oohh. Right. Poor guy. He's being a trooper, but he's been coughing all night. You really think it's serious?"

I can feel their eyes on me and I hope that my fake-sleeping is convincing enough to mask my complete humiliation.

Jeremy says, "Yeah. Look at him; his lips are turning blue. He's barely breathing. My brother had asthma like that. It can really fuck you up. I tried to get people to stop smoking inside, but what can you do?"

The girl says, "I'm sure he'd have spoke up if he was really in trouble."

"I wouldn't be so sure. He's a… he's an enigma, Blaine is. Plus he's super pissed at me, so yeah. I figure he wants to get out of here either way."

"Fair enough," the girl says, "You are a complete asshole."

"Yep," Jeremy agrees.

Fuck him.

But seriously, I should be at the hospital, so whatever.

Holly wakes up when half the people in the house start cheering for the snow plow guys as they make it to this street to dig debris off the road and push the snow out of the way. Everyone helps everyone get their cars out of the snow banks and jump-start each other's frozen car batteries.

Holly drives me to the hospital almost wordlessly, her usually gorgeous hair tangled in a giant mass of red curls.

Before long, I've had an injection of something that makes the clamped up muscles in my lungs relax, and I'm breathing meds through a mask, crammed against the wall in the hallway of a hospital too tiny to cope with the massive amounts of storm-related injuries flooding in.

"You look like crap," Holly says, "I'd be smug about it if I didn't feel so bad for you."

I raise any eyebrow. Holly adds, "Because you always look good. And it's a little infuriating. But I'm officially not attracted to you at this moment."

If I didn't feel like my limbs were made of bricks, I'd smack her. Instead, I just stick out my tongue from inside my nebulizer mask.

"What a shitty night," Holly says, "I'm so sorry I forced you to go to that party."

I shrug.

"Jeremy was right, you know," she says, "I knew what was in those cookies. I could see it in his eyes when he lied to me. But I ate them anyway."

She looks so defeated and ashamed that I slide over and motion for her to join me on the bed.

"I don't know what it means," she says. "I just know that I wanted to get high, and so I did."

I pull the mask off my face and whisper, "It's okay, Holly. People mess up. Just… do you think it's going to happen again?"

Holly bites her lip. "I don't know," she says. "I don't know if this counts as a relapse. It was pot. Not speed. I've never even really liked pot that much."

I squeeze her hand.

She says, "I still want to be sober. I don't want to fuck everything up again. But _damn_, Blaine… it felt nice to get high. To be able to just enjoy myself and talk to those guys… everything is just so much easier when things are… fuzzy."

I know exactly what she means, but it scares to hear her talking like this.

Holly says, "Things are so _hard_ when you're sober. I feel like last night I was functioning like a real person for the first time in months."

She kisses my cheek, cuddles closer to me, and adds, "But I guess I just have to remember how fucked up everything gets when you throw away reality just to make things easy."

She's a little bit poetic sometimes. Or maybe I'm just woozy.


	22. That's Not a Dream

**Chapter Twenty-Two: That's Not a Dream**

My breathing still feels itchy and sticky, but the hospital is crowded and understaffed, so they send me home after a couple of hours. I'm relieved. The truth is that I'd have never agreed to go there in the first place if the road up to the Academy hadn't still been blocked, and Holly hadn't insisted.

I know that I can't help having asthma, but it still humiliates me every time it rears its head. I'm a guy who probably cares too much about appearances and people's opinions, and the last way I want people to view me is as a sickly, pitiable kid who can't take care of himself.

Still, I'm not going to draw attention to my humiliation by acting embarrassed about it; the only way to maintain a confident, independent persona is to never admit that anything shakes your confidence.

And it's ridiculous for me to even consider these things when the only person around is Holly, who can probably see right through me anyway.

But she's got enough on her mind right now that it probably doesn't even matter.

"What do you want to do?" I ask her as she drives back up the now cleared road to the Academy. "Do you want to talk to someone? Find an AA meeting? Or are you going to be okay?"

Holly shrugs. "I'll be okay. Honestly, right now I just want to make sure that _you're_ okay. You really scared me, Blaine."

I blink at her. She'd shown no sign of concern while we were at the hospital. This girl is a master at concealing what she's thinking. "What?"

"You were barely breathing, Blaine. And I know you're trying to be tough right now, but you look like hell, and I can still hear you wheezing. You're going to bed as soon as we get home."

It might be the exhaustion talking, but my heart warms a little when she admits her concern. "I'm fine," I tell her.

She rolls her eyes.

"No," I say, "Really. I'm not just trying to be tough. I feel like crap, but there's nothing to worry about."

Holly says, "That's not what the nurse said. I'm not leaving your side."

I sigh, which makes me start to cough. My shoulder is killing me, and coughing makes it worse.

She says, "Anyway, I'm not just worried about the asthma. I can't stop thinking about how fucked up you got after karaoke… Blaine, I really think you should talk to a therapist."

I turn to her in surprise. "What? Holly, no."

She says, "Blaine, everyone at that party could see that you have an unforgettable talent. And it breaks my heart to know that you're not using it."

I really just want to get back to campus so that I can sleep. "Holly, I told you. I can't."

Holly senses my irritation, and she says, "I'm not saying that I think you should go back to Broadway. I understand that you need to explore other avenues right now."

I close my eyes. I don't want to think about this right now. "So what's your point?"

Holly says, "You know, before last night, I'd never seen you look like you weren't perfect. I knew you had problems, but I could never see them. You look perfect, you act perfect, you get perfect grades… And then last night, you got up there and sang Pocahontas..."

I try not to start coughing again.

She says, "For those moments when you held that microphone, you skyrocketed way past perfection into superstardom… But then it all came crashing down. I never saw anyone fall apart so quickly before."

I say, "Holly, I don't know what you want me to say."

"I want you to say that you're going to talk to someone about this. Someone who knows how to help you."

"I know you mean well," I say, "But you don't get it. I'm healing already. I have new dreams now."

Holly nods. "Yeah. Except that I don't think you do. You're a great writer, but you don't really know why you're here. You don't know what it really means to you to be a writer. You had a lot of money and a lot of time, so you decided to run away to Montana to become a new person. That's not a dream. That's an escape."

"I needed a fresh start, Holly."

She says, "Yeah. You did. And you got it. I think Avonroy is good for you. But you still need to deal with what you went through. You should be able to sing karaoke without having a panic attack. You know?"

I know.

I start coughing, and we finally reach campus. Holly says, "Blaine, the only reason I'm pushing you about this is because I don't know if I want to stay at Avonroy. But I don't know if I can leave without knowing that you're going to be okay."

Now I'm really coughing. Holly parks the car and rubs my back. Finally, I'm able to say, "What do you _mean_ you want to leave?"

Holly hesitates, then says, "I don't know, Blaine. I don't want to talk about it right now. You're too sick. Let's get you to bed."


	23. My Novel Isn't a Novel

**Chapter Twenty-Three: My Novel Isn't a Novel**

The Academy has a lot of solar panels and a geothermal heating system, so it held up pretty well in the storm. Electricity is intermittent, but my dorm room is warm and dry, so I don't mind. Still, I have a hard time sleeping, because I can't stop wondering about what Holly said.

When you physically feel like crap the way I do right now, it's really easy to lose perspective and think that your whole life is crap. I'm trying not to let Holly convince me that I'm more fucked up than I am.

And I really hope that she's not convincing herself that hers is either.

We have it good here. We're living in this beautiful place, studying with these brilliant writers, starting our lives over in this wonderful, inspiring way.

I might have some demons in my past, but accepting that the past is the past and it's never going to change is what saved my life and got me sober last. Dwelling on it the way Holly seems to think I should isn't an option.

I'm much too prone to angst as it is.

And anyway, what the fuck is Holly doing, talking about dropping out?

When I finally do fall asleep, I sleep for more than twenty-four hours straight.

It's Sunday evening when I wake up, and Kurt and Jeremy are making out on his bed across the room. I spend a few moment pretending to still be asleep, and then I get the fuck out of my room.

I knock on Holly's door, but nobody answers, so I go to the student lounge to watch some TV. The satellite is down because of the storm, so I put in a DVD someone had lying on the coffee table instead.

A trailer comes on for a new movie, and suddenly my brother's face shows up on the screen.

My brother Cooper is going to be starring opposite Natalie Portman in a movie about ghosts.

I can't even begin to process this.

Cooper's been on a fairly popular TV crime drama for like eight years now, so I'm used to him being famous, but this is just a whole new level of unbelievable.

I'm sitting on a mountain in the middle of nowhere with no real direction in my life, and my brother is going to be a movie star.

He always said that _I_ was the talented one.

For the first time in a long time, I let myself wonder where I'd be right now if I hadn't walked out of that theatre two years ago.

Cooper's dreams are coming true, and I don't even think I have a dream anymore.

I used to be so ambitious. So driven.

I used to know what I wanted. I wanted what Cooper has.

And now even thinking about what I used to want more than anything-the spotlight-makes me feel sick.

I don't know why what we went through left me broken and him stronger than ever.

Cooper was invited to Mom's funeral because he's straight, not because he tried any harder than I did to keep her alive.

Maybe it's because dad never disowned him that he's well-adjusted enough to continue living like it never happened when it made me completely fall apart.

I really hate my brother sometimes for being normal.

But the fact that I'm seething with jealousy right now makes me really wonder how dead my superstar dreams really are.

Then again, maybe dreams are overrated. I think ambition is what destroyed me.

Without realizing I've left the student lounge, I find myself pacing down the hallways in the music building, deep in thought.

I think Holly was right. I have no idea what it means to be a writer. I know that I like to write, but I don't know what to do with that.

I don't dream of having a best-selling novel, or seeing my name in the credits of a blockbuster.

I enjoy writing, but I don't have any particular dreams attached to it.

But how many people really know what they want? Isn't that part of growing up? Finding something to strive toward? It's not as easy as it is on TV. People don't always know what they want.

The thing about writing is that it's not so much a dream as it is part of who I am.

When I was alone in New York, having dropped out of school, walked away from theatre, stopped using drugs, and lost all of my friends, I still had writing. When I had no energy or courage for anything else, I still wanted to write.

I just don't know if writing for the sake of writing is always going to be enough for me.

But I guess it's stupid to compare myself to a brother who I haven't spoken to in two years.

I hear music coming from a room down the hall, and I stop to listen. An accapella choir is rehearsing, and they sound very very good.

I don't know how it happens, but I'm suddenly crying.

The simple magic of vocal harmony is unbelievable. Accapella choir is what got me hooked on performance in the first place.

All of these completely different people singing completely different notes that can create something so insanely beautiful when it's right, and so insanely ugly when it's wrong.

Holy fucking shit yes.

I just realized how to solve the writing problem that I've been agonizing over for weeks.

How do you write about two minds trapped inside of each other? How do you write about thoughts two people's thoughts trapped in the same space? How do you write about mind readers trapped in each other's heads?

You do it in song.

Oh my god.

My novel isn't a novel.

It's a musical.

It's all so clear. My characters are mind-readers, but writing realistically about mind-reading is very difficult, because people don't think in sentences. They think in ideas and emotions and memories and fragments.

My characters can experience other people's thoughts, but I don't want it to be in the cliché, italicized full sentences that just never seem real.

But if it was music…

If it was a stage show…

If mind-reading was portrayed on stage through music...

And there was no harmony or dissonance until the two leads were trapped inside each other's head…

Is this a stupid idea, or am I really on to something here?


	24. Have You Ever Been in Love?

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Have You Ever Been in Love?**

I have a doctor's appointment for my shoulder in Kalispell today that has been scheduled since July, and Holly volunteered weeks ago to skip class with me to drive me out there, but since the roads are still so bad, I didn't really expect her to go through with it until this morning, when she knocked on my dorm room door at seven in the morning.

Jeremy is still staying with Kurt, since electricity still hasn't been restored to most of the village, and he's the one who lets her in, since I'm still in bed and half-naked.

I hear Holly stuttering, "Uh… is uh… is Blaine here?"

I pull on my jeans and go to the door.

"I figured we'd better get an early start if we're going to make it through these roads on time."

I'm half-asleep, and I ask, "Are you sure you want to make the drive? I could just reschedule the appointment. "

But Holly isn't meeting my eyes; she's staring at my shirtless frame, and for a moment, I think she's checking me out, but then I realize that Jeremy is standing beside me, also staring.

I'm usually way too self-conscious to let the scars on my shoulder show, and now I'm standing shirtless in my dorm room with two people staring right at them.

It's been about five years since my last surgery, but the scars are still thick, raised, and numerous. I pull on my shirt quickly, as Jeremy asks, "What's up with the shoulder, Blaine?"

I ignore him, and Holly and I leave quickly.

I ask again, "Are you sure that you want to brave the roads today?"

She nods. "It'll be an adventure. We've got hours. I need to get away from Avonroy for a while."

I say, "Okay. I guess most of the roads should have been cleared by now. Let me know if you want me to take a turn driving."

We stop for donuts and coffee at the cafeteria, and then we start the drive through the mountains to Kalispell.

"Okay," says Holly, after a very long few miles of silence, "I know it's really early in the morning and you might not want to talk about it, but… well, you've never really said much about your shoulder except that it's the reason you got hooked on painkillers. Do you mind me asking?"

My injured shoulder is one of those things that I usually try not to think too much about, because it's an impossible thing to think about without getting either really angry or really depressed, but Holly's driving me to an appointment about it, so I can't think of a good reason not to tell her.

"What do you want to know?"

Holly gives me an exasperated eye roll. "You know. What happened?"

I say, "Um. Well, I was fourteen. I was a freshman. I'd grown a backbone about two months prior, and I got the crap beat out of me for being gay."

"Oh fuck," Holly says, "I don't know if I want to hear this story anymore."

I smile. "Maybe that's the whole story, then."

She pauses, giving me a searching look before remembering that she's supposed to be watching the road. "Fuck, Blaine," she says, turning back to the windshield. "I think it's ridiculously unfair that you've had to go through so much shit just for being gay. How can people be so cruel to such a great guy?"

I shrug, thinking back to that weird, disconnected life that used to be mine. "You have to understand that I was already very unpopular."

"I have a hard time believing that anyone could dislike you. You're so… charming."

I roll my eyes. "That doesn't really help when you're growing up in Westerville Ohio. You've seen how bad my asthma gets even now. Back when I was a kid, I was sick all of the time. I was an easy target. And it didn't help that I had very strict, religious parents who refused to allow me to participate in any kind of extra-curricular activities that weren't run by the church."

Holly grimaces.

I say, "I was forced through years and years and years of piano and voice lessons, because my dad believed that music would bring me closer to God. I was actually kind of gifted, so I became quite famous around Westerville, Ohio as the kid who made beautiful music about Jesus. And that's just too easy for pre-teen kids to make fun of."

Holly snarls, "People fucking suck."

I say, "Yeah. And when I was thirteen, my brother Cooper got cast on _Peregrination, _which you'd think would impress people, but it really just made them tease me more."

I can tell that Holly is fighting not to ask more questions about my brother, and I'm glad that she has that much tact.

"So yeah," I say, not really sure why I feel the need to say all of these things, "I figured I didn't have much to lose by coming out. Except that as soon as people knew I was actually gay, they stopped just picking on me because it was fun and they started picking on me out of hatred. Which was so much worse than I anticipated."

Holly swallows, glancing at me again with an almost nauseated look on her face. She asks, "So what actually happened?"

I say, "I asked this guy, Trevor, the only other gay guy at the school, to come to me to a dance. And a bunch of guys-older guys-came at us in the school parking lot. Trevor ran away, but they jumped me. They kicked the living daylights out of me. I broke a wrist and several ribs, but the worst of it was the shoulder."

"Can I ask for details about the shoulder?"

Holly seems intrigued by this whole thing, which I might have found uncomfortable if I didn't know that it came from a really genuine, caring place.

But I still feel a wave of unexpected dizziness as I say, "I honestly can't remember much about the actual assault, but the doctors figure that someone twisted my arm to get me to stop fighting back, which dislocated the shoulder and tore a bunch of ligaments."

Holly grimaces. I add, "And then somehow, whether it was from being kicked or crushed under something, the bone in my shoulder-the humeral head, as well as most of the bones in my upper arm-got shattered, and destroyed a bunch of blood vessels."

"And that's really bad, huh?"

I say, "Yeah. Uh… I had a lot of surgeries. Lots of metal rods in my upper arm. And then, since the bone couldn't heal properly without the blood vessels, so I developed necrosis… which caused arthritis. When I was fifteen, they had to give me a prosthetic shoulder joint. Basically, most of my shoulder right now is metal. Metal and scar tissue. And arthritis, and nerve damage."

"And all because people didn't want you taking another boy to a dance." She sounds so disgusted that I feel slightly mollified.

"Yep. And my dad disowned me while I was still in the hospital."

Holly swears loudly and for a moment I'm terrified that she's going to drive off of the road. "Well, no wonder you stated abusing painkillers. Anyone would, having to deal with so much hate."

I think back to that nightmarish time, and I say nothing.

"So what's the appointment today about?"

I say, "They just need to make sure that everything is still okay with the prosthetic, and see if they can do anything about the pain."

"How much pain are you really in?"

It's hard question to answer, because I honestly don't really remember what it's like not to hurt.

I say, "Every once in a while, I'll do something stupid and strain it and it will be pretty much unbearable, but as long as I don't really use my arm and take a lot of anti-inflammatory meds, it's mostly just a dull ache."

She shakes her head. "And you'll have to live with that your whole life. That fucking sucks."

I shrug. I'm really really trying to not let myself dwell on how much stuff that happened to me years and years ago suck. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger right?"

She says, "I dunno, Blaine. I think there are some things that people are better off being a little bit weaker for avoiding."

I say, "Probably. But you can't change the past."

"No," Holly agrees, "You can't."

We drive in silence for a bit longer, and then I say, "Okay. So I told you a story. Now you tell me one. What's your deal with Avonroy? You're not really thinking about leaving are you?"

Holly keeps her eyes on the road and says nothing.

"No," I say, jaw dropping, "You really are, aren't you?"

She says, "Maybe we can't change the past, but that doesn't mean we have to let go of it entirely."

"What's that supposed to mean, Holly?"

Holly ties her hair out of her eyes and puts her car into cruise control. "Have you ever been in love, Blaine?"

Kurt's face swims to the front of my mind, and I feel myself blush. "Not really," I say quickly, "I think I'm a little too self-absorbed for love."

Holly smirks, and says, "That's not true, Blaine."

I shrug, and ask, "So what about you, Holly? Love?"

She tells me, "I fell in love with Paul when I was like ten years old."

"Paul?"

She nods. "He was my friend Karin's brother. We kissed for the first time when I was thirteen."

I have no idea where she's going with this.

She says, "We started dating when I was fifteen, and we went to rehab together when I was seventeen. We broke up when I relapsed and dropped out of high school, and he left to go to college."

"Paul, huh? Tell me you dont want to leave Avonroy to get back together with some guy you dated in high school? Oh Holly…"

She gives me a dirty look. "See, this is why I didn't want to tell you. You're judging."

Shit. "No, Holly. I'm sorry. What is this really about?"

She says, "Paul and I have hooked up again every time he's been back in Whitefish for the last five years. When I was twenty, he asked me to marry him, and I said yes."

"You're _married?_"

"No," she says, "Because I've never been able to stay sober for long enough to set a wedding date. He won't marry me if I'm using. But he graduated in the fall, and he's back in Whitefish, and I'm sober, and I _miss_ him."

I can't believe her. "So you would give up your dream of writing for a guy?"

She gives me another dirty look. "You don't get it, Blaine. Before I met you, I'd never really had feelings for a guy who wasn't Paul. And then you broke my heart."

"I'm sorry, Holly."

"No," she says, "I'm glad. It made me realize some stuff. It made me realize how desperate I was to try to forget about Paul."

"You love Paul," I say, "I get that. But you can't just leave Avonroy to marry some guy."

"He's not just some guy, Blaine! I love him. And frankly, I hate Avonroy."

"You can't hate Avonroy."

"Not," she says, "I do. I don't fit in. I'm failing most of my classes. I can't talk to people. All I can think about is how much easier it would all be if I got high. I don't like having to write on a deadline. I don't like being told what I'm supposed to write. I hate having other people judge me for not being creative enough. If it weren't for you, Blaine, I would have dropped out weeks ago."

I don't even know what to say to her right now.

She says, "Look, Paul has a great job, and he loves me. His family loves me. I feel like I could really start a life with him."

I'm trying so hard to understand her right now, but I can't.

She says, "You've never been in love, Blaine. You don't get it."

I say, "Holly, I'm trying to trust your judgement, but if Whitefish is the place where you've never been able to stay sober, why do you think going back there is a good idea? If you've never been able to stay sober for Paul before, why do you think you can now?"

She says, "Because I'm stronger now. Paul's in Whitefish for good. Karin's married and she's on my side for real now. I understand myself in ways I probably never would have if I'd never have met you."

"What do I have to do with this?"

She says, "You are the single most fucked up person I've ever met, but somehow you're still strong and confident and determined, and it's fucking inspiring. You made me realize that I don't have to apologize for who I am."

I nod, somehow feeling a little guilty.

Holly continues, "And who I am is a girl who will probably never be able to be happy in a place like Avonroy, full of strangers and judgements. I'll probably never be able to function in a real job. I'm shy as fuck. And I don't think I should have to keep making myself miserable just so that I can fit into a world ruled by extroverts. Paul loves me and he can support me and let me develop my writing in a way that doesn't give me nervous rashes and nightmares."

My stomach is sinking. Everything Holly is saying scares me to death, even though she's probably exactly right, and I think it's actually really sweet.

I say, "At least finish the term. Get to Christmas. Get your credits for this term. Then the Avonroy door won't be closed. You can come back if you change your mind."

Holly nods. "Yeah. I know. That's what Paul says too. I'm not ready to leave yet anyway. I haven't made any choices yet. I just… you've been really honest with me, so I wanted to be honest with you. Now you know. This is where I'm at. I hope you can still respect me."

I really don't think I've ever respected anyone more, and there is no part of me who understands why.


	25. Everything Feels Tingly

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Everything Feels Tingly **

Holly and I return to Avonroy in the evening and are very pleased to learn that electricity has been restored to the village, so Jeremy is no longer lurking in my dorm room.

"So why are you still here, then?" I ask Kurt, after I say goodnight to Holly.

He gives me a look I can't classify and says, "I don't have to spend every waking minute by his side."

"Okay," I say, shrugging uncertainly.

"And where were you and Holly all day? Not skipping class, I hope?"

"I had an appointment in Kalispell."

"Doctor?"

I nod. "For my shoulder."

"Jeremy was asking me about that," Kurt says, "He said he saw some scars."

Grimacing, I say, "It's really none of his business."

Nodding, Kurt agrees, "That's what I told him. Anyway, how was the appointment?"

I roll my eyes. "Pointless. Mostly scans and X-rays and being told a bunch of crap I already knew."

"Such as?"

"Such as that there's nothing else they can do. And I should be on painkillers."

"You're not on painkillers?"

I shake my head. "Sometimes I take Advil."

Kurt has his hair styled in this insanely attractive little whirl, and I'm trying to keep my tone casual and not let my eyes linger too long on his perfect face.

He asks, "Is the shoulder why you gave up theatre? I mean, it must make dancing hard."

I feel a prickle of annoyance, because I'm sure that Kurt overheard me telling Holly the real reason I gave up theatre at that party.

"My shoulder got fucked up when I was fourteen, Kurt. It took me years and years after that to give up on theatre."

He nods. "I guess I knew that," he says quickly, "Sorry. You told me that you were assaulted in freshman year." He grimaces, and says, "Sorry. It's none of my business."

Kurt is clearly in a strange mood. He can't take his eyes off of me, but it's in a curious, deeply thoughtful way.

"It's fine," I say slowly, raising an eyebrow at him, "Is everything okay, Kurt?"

Kurt's eyes finally snap away from me, and he says, "Yeah. It's fine. I've just got a lot on my mind."

"Do you want to talk? Is it about Jeremy?"

He climbs up onto his bed and sits with his legs dangling off of the edge. "It's not really about Jeremy," he says, "I think it's more about you."

"About me?" My heart skips a childish, hopeful beat.

Kurt nods. "Yeah. You… Blaine, you're a writer, right?"

I stare at him without answering, since he obviously already knows the answer.

He shakes his head quickly in apology, and continues, "Because haven't you heard about the Collaboration Festival that the school is putting on in the spring?"

I shake my head. Kurt says, "They're trying to get students from different faculties to work together. They're awarding production budgets to five student teams consisting of a writer, a designer, an actor, and a musician who can propose the best projects combining all of their disciplines."

My idea about the musical I could adapt my novel into immediately swims to the front of my mind.

Kurt continues, "I don't know what we'd do, but I know that I want to create something, Blaine. We live in this incredible place with all of these incredible people and resources. We should be doing more than just studying. We should create something."

"So you want me to join your team? As a writer?"

Nodding, Kurt says, "Yeah. I mean… I've got Jeremy as an actor, obviously, but we could find someone else if you're not comfortable with it. And my friend Steve from the music department. He's a composer. I thought we could do a musical or something."

The idea of working with Jeremy is a little bit disgusting, but I know I'm never going to be able to create a musical all by myself.

And I know that writing this musical might be just the thing I need right now to keep me going.

I ask, "What kind of musical do you have in mind?"

Kurt shrugs. "I mean… I feel like… I feel like you, Jeremy, Steve, and I all have this connection. Like we have these completely different yet similar lives that overlap… and that could be extrapolated into a beautiful story."

"What?"

"I don't know," Kurt says, "We're all gay, for one. I know that that doesn't necessarily mean anything, but I just think that there could be a story worth being told about gay kids from small and unforgiving towns who find out that they're completely different people than they thought they were once they move away and don't have to be gay pride poster boys anymore."

It's such an eerily accurate and yet removed description of my life that I'm intrigued.

I say, "What if I told you that I have an idea for a musical that I really really want to write, and that could easily fit in with those themes?"

Kurt's nervous expression of uncertainty dissolves from his face. He asks, "I'd say please tell me about it."

There's something incredibly scary about explaining an idea you desperately want to be brilliant to someone else. Because what if it's actually a stupid idea?

I tell Kurt, "It's the story of two high school students. And this might sound lame, but they're mind-readers. They can experience other people's thoughts. And that's of course where the music comes in. Any music in the whole show has to represent someone's thoughts, being read by the two main characters."

Kurt's expression doesn't change, and I feel a little stupid.

I say, "One of these kids is openly gay and gets picked on all of the time. He uses his mind-reading powers to try to avoid conflict and persuade people to support the LGBT community. The other one is a closeted gay who uses his powers to make sure that nobody suspects a thing, and to exploit the fears and insecurities of others."

He's still listening intently without showing any sign of opinion about my ideas.

"Okay," I continue, "So in this world, mind-readers all have a soul-mate who they are destined to end up with, and once a mind-reader breaks into the mind of their soul-mate, they are no longer able to read anyone else' mind. They just have to live the rest of their lives sharing the thoughts and feelings of their soul-mate."

Kurt grins a little, and I know he knows where I'm going with this.

I say, "So these two guys meet a few times and they hate each other, and are always really frustrated by the fact that they can't read each other's minds. Until one day, they run into each other while drunk at a party, and they let each other into each other's heads. And then they are stuck in each others' heads and have to deal with all of the shit that I'm sure you can imagine comes from that."

Shaking his head with a huge grin on his face, Kurt jumps off of his bed and is suddenly standing right in front my me. "Oh my _God_, Blaine," he says, "This is fucking _perfect_! Perfect for a musical. We _have_ to do it!"

I nod, and then all of a sudden, Kurt's lips are on mine and my tongue is inside his mouth and everything feels tingly.


	26. What Heartbreak Feels Like

**Chapter Twenty-Six: What Heartbreak Feels Like**

It's the second anniversary of my mother's death, but somehow when I wake up, I feel hopeful.

I think that if I can hold on to the intense excitement and inspiration about the musical and the relationship that Kurt and I are about to start together, I can get through this day without getting unnecessarily emotional about what happened two years ago.

Except that then I go to the cafeteria and see Kurt and Jeremy having breakfast together, and I realize that nothing has changed.

Kurt catches my eye as I try to leave the cafeteria quickly so as to not betray how upset I am.

He follows me out onto the boardwalk in front of the theatre building, calling, "Wait, Blaine! Wait."

I stop and he meets me by the railing, staring down at the lake. "Please don't hate me for last night," he says.

I shrug.

He says, "I know how hypocritical of me it is to always complain to you that Jeremy cheats on me, and then turn around and cheat on him. I feel awful."

Unbelievable. "So you're staying with him, huh?"

Kurt's eyes pierce mine, and I'm sure that there are a hundred things that he'd like to say to me, but all he says is, "I really like you, Blaine. And maybe in another life, we could have been something. But what Jeremy and I have is forever. I can't just give up on him because things with you would be new and exciting."

This might be what heartbreak feels like.

How could I have fallen so hard for an idiot who can't see how horrible his boyfriend is?

I think that I'm starting to collapse in on myself.

When I was a teenager, and I got rejected by a guy, I went to my mother, and she fed me ice cream and told me to keep perspective. Things will get better. There are lots of guys in the world. I'm still young.

But my mother has already been dead for two entire fucking years, and it's hard to follow the advice of a woman who was so defeated by the world that she ended her own life.

Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly angsty, I'm afraid that I've inherited whatever it was in my mother that convinced her to kill herself.

Sometimes I do feel incredibly hopeless even when I really have no good reason to.

I just can't believe that Kurt kissed me and let me think that we had a chance together, and then waited until morning to take it back.

"Blaine?" Kurt puts his hand on my shoulder uncertainly, "Are you alright, Blaine?"

I turn to him and feel my eyes filling with tears. "I'm fine," I say quickly, "Go away, please."

And I push him away and I hurry up the boardwalk to my dorm room, where I close the door, take out a box of pictures and letters from my mother.

I will spend the day reminding myself what an incredible woman my mother is. I will remind myself how I destroyed her. How Westerville, Ohio destroyed her. And I will vow never to let anyone or anything destroy me.

My life has to mean more than the average life, because I'm living for my mom now too. She sacrificed her happiness and sanity to give me safety and security. She always said that I was going to do great things and impact the world in a wonderful way.

She's been dead for two years, and all I've accomplished is dropping out of school, nearly overdosing on heroin, and running away to the other side of the country.

I probably don't know the whole story between Kurt and Jeremy, but I do know that they aren't good for each other. I think that Kurt and I are both in Avonroy at the same time for a reason. I think that we're drawn to each other because we deserve each other.

So I'll work on the musical with Kurt, and hope that somehow in the process, we can either create something that can change someone's perspective, or I can convince him that he should be with me.

Or both, ideally.

In the meantime, I need to just take a day to cry and miss my mom.


	27. You Have to Fight For Him

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: You Have to Fight For Him**

Holly and I lock ourselves in her room for the afternoon on Saturday in order to catch up on watching all of the films we're supposed to have been watching for our screenwriting class before exams come and screw us over. It's cozy and comfortable, but Holly is jittery and irritable, so I have a hard time really enjoying it.

When she snaps at me for moving my legs and shifting the blanket, I say pointedly, "Maybe it's time for a break. Do you want to go outside?"

Holly scowls. "No. We're halfway through this movie. Shh."

I'm in a sort of fragile mood, and I've never seen Holly so cranky before, so as the movie goes on, I wish more and more that I was anywhere else.

When the credits start rolling, Holly mutters, "Jesus, that was stupid. I'm so sick of these films."

I'd been too distracted to really register the quality of the movie. I say, "So let's stop watching them."

Holly nods. "Yeah." She leans back on her bed.

I say, "Let's go for a walk. Get up."

She shakes her head. "It's freezing out."

I raise an eyebrow. "You don't want a cigarette?"

Holly crosses her arms and admits, "Desperately. But I quit. So no."

Well that explains the bitchiness. "You quit smoking? When?"

She says, "Last night."

As much as I hate cigarettes, I have no idea why Holly would choose now to do this to herself. "But you love smoking, Holly," I say.

Holly nods. "I know. This is all your fault. Ever since I had to take you to the emergency room after that party, I haven't been able to have a cigarette without crippling guilt."

It's good to know that my asthma can be good for something. I sort of want to smile, but Holly looks so sheepish that I just give her a hug.

"I'm glad you want to quit, Holly, but do really think that's a good idea right now? I mean… right before exams… all these assignments due… you're already gunna be stressed out enough." Holly looks exhausted already.

She pushes my arms away and says, "I can't get the image of you at that party, sitting in Jeremy's basement with your lips skin turning blue because you couldn't breathe out of my head. All because _other_ people chose to pollute your air."

"So don't smoke around me. You don't have to quit entirely."

I honestly don't know if Holly is strong enough to get by without giving in to at least one of her addictions right now.

Holly shakes her head. "I can't live with myself knowing that I'm knowingly harming my own healthy lungs when you have to fight every day just to breathe because of a disease that's not your fault. That's just not fair, and it must drive you crazy."

I've honestly never thought of it that way. I've never given much thought to smoking except to be annoyed by how allergic I am to smoke. "Jesus Holly. Don't make it sound so dramatic. I have asthma; I'm not an invalid."

She shakes her head. "I've seen the pills and the inhalers and all of the crap you have to take. I know how much you hate it. Anyway, it's not just guilt. I know I'm too much of a baby to deal with it if I bring some shitty lung disease on myself. After seeing that attack you had during the storm… I like breathing. So I'm never going to smoke again."

Even though I'm concerned about the wisdom of Holly's new resolution, I am pretty proud of her for making the decision. I give her another hug. "Congrats, Holly. You just let me know what I can do to make this easier for you."

She gives me a sly look, and says, "It would be easier on me if you'd stop moping about Kurt and Jeremy."

I grimace fall back against the wall with a groan. "Is it that obvious?"

She leans back too and puts her arm around me. "You need to fight for what you want, Blaine. Kurt obviously isn't happy with Jeremy."

I say, "Kurt is convinced that relationships take work and that he can't just give up because it's hard."

Holly rolls her eyes. "Well, Kurt is a fucking idiot. Which begs the question: What do you see in him?"

Making a face at Holly, I say, "I don't know… He's so… poised. He's got style. He's a great conversationalist… he's funny in a really not-funny way… and he's gorgeous. I dunno. We go way back, you know? Something about him just brings back this… feeling. A feeling I thought I'd killed a long time ago."

She kisses my cheek, unable to conceal her grin. "Aw." She says, "Blaine. You've got it bad. Fuck. We need to dispose of that Jeremy creep."

I say, "Jeremy's really not that bad."

Her jaw drops, and Holly says, "Are you kidding me? Jeremy? The guy who cheats on Kurt, lies to get people high, and thinks that being an actor gives him the right to look down on everyone else?"

"Don't get me wrong," I say, "I can't stand the guy. But the thing is that I honestly don't think that he means harm by any of it. He's just so entirely self-absorbed and full of himself that he doesn't see what a pretentious douche-bag he is. And in a way, I respect him for it. He doesn't care what anyone thinks."

Snorting, Holly says, "That's not a virtue, Blaine. Caring about other people is what makes you human. He doesn't care."

"I think he cares about people," I say, "He just doesn't care what they think. Or rather, he's not willing to let what they think get in the way of his fun or his ego."

She rolls her eyes. "You have got to be kidding. Don't tell me you like him to. Where's the proof he cares about anyone?"

I say, "He wouldn't let us drive in that storm. He pulled strings to get the roads cleared so I could get to the hospital that day. And I'm sorry, but I refuse to believe that Kurt would still be with him if he was as much of an asshole as he acts. That being said, I think that Kurt is miserable in that relationship, and I agree that he's an idiot for not getting out."

Holly narrows her eyes at me with a look of complete wonder and confusion. "You know what I think?" she asks.

"What?"

"I think you need to confront Jeremy. Ask him why he's holding Kurt emotionally hostage. Call Jeremy out for treating his boyfriend like shit. Tell him that Kurt deserves better. Let him know that he's got competition."

"Holly, I can't…"

She cuts me off. "You love Kurt," she says, "And you have to fight for him. The longer you watch him stay with a guy who doesn't deserve him, the crazier you're going to get. Confront Jeremy. Do it for me. So that I can quit smoking without worrying about anyone's sanity but my own. "


	28. Give Him a Reason to Choose You

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Give Him a Reason to Choose You**

As we move into December and the semester draws to a close, the workload for all of my classes becomes so intense that I don't have time to worry about Holly or be annoyed with Jeremy or fantasize about Kurt.

I have thousands upon thousands of words to write, and any waking moment that isn't spent in class or eating is spent chained to my computer, struggling to churn out as much content as possible just to meet minimum word count requirements for my assignments. Any concern for the quality of my work is forgotten. I just have to get this shit done.

So, when Jeremy corners me in the cafeteria while I'm trying to scarf down my salad as quickly as possible so I can return to writing my rhetorical argument on paternal rights during pregnancy, following Holly's advice to confront him is far from my mind.

"How are you, Blaine?" he asks, sliding his tray of food onto the table across from me.

I look up at him wearily, and say, "Incredibly busy. What do you want, Jeremy?"

He looks hurt, in a false, theatrical sort of way. "Just wanted to talk. Haven't seen much of you lately. You're feeling better?"

I raise an eyebrow. "What?"

"I know you were hospitalized after my party in that storm."

"That was a month ago. I'm fine."

Jeremy opens his can of Red Bull. "Just wanted to make sure. I lost a brother to asthma when I was a kid. You can imagine that it still scares me."

Something about his tone when he tells me about his brother irritates me, which then makes me feel guilty. But he had no reason to bring that up right now unless he was looking for pity or trying to force some kind of connection with me.

"I'm sorry about your brother," I say, "But I'm fine."

Jeremy nods. "Yeah, I can see that."

His tone shifts to flirty in an instant, and it takes all of my strength not to walk away. But instead, I ask, "Has Kurt said anything to you about teaming up for the Collab Festival?"

Jeremy shrugs. "Probably. You're doing it?"

I nod. "I dunno. I think so."

He says, "Kurt's been weird lately. He told you anything? Like, about us? Like, about maybe wanting to break up with me? Because I just… I just get the feeling that he's about to end it."

He has this boyish, vulnerable look about him, like he's really worried about the boy he treats like crap not wanting to be with him.

Still, I'm not going to beat around the bush about it when my own happiness is on the line. Jeremy never lets anyone else' happiness get in the way of his, so I'll follow his lead.

I say, "You're not the only one who fools around on the side, Jeremy. The difference is that Kurt feels guilty about it."

Jeremy freezes. His jaw drops open, but he corrects it instantly, straitening up and adjusting his collar, eyes flicking in every direction as though his brain is short-circuiting.

"You fucked my boyfriend, Anderson?"

Now his tone is threatening and dangerous.

I'm not afraid of him. I say, "That's between me and Kurt."

"Since when is there a You And Kurt?" The pitch of his voice is heightening.

I roll my eyes. "If you actually deserved a guy like Kurt, you'd have noticed a long time ago that you're not his whole world."

"Of course I'm his whole world. Who the fuck do you think you are? You don't know a thing about me and Kurt."

I say, "I know that everyone who knows you can see that you're both holding onto something that isn't there. You make him miserable, Jeremy. Kurt doesn't deserve to have a boyfriend who makes him feel worthless."

"What, and I guess you think that _you're_ the guy he deserves?" Jeremy has gone very very pale.

"I think that you need to ask yourself why you're keeping yourselves prisoner in a relationship that clearly means more to you in theory than it does in practice."

He doesn't say anything; he just pokes at his dinner with his fork and stares at me.

"I just want you to know that you're not the only guy in Kurt's world. So open your eyes and either give him a reason to choose you, or let him go. Because I'm not just going to watch you hurt him for very much longer."

Jeremy drops his fork. "Fuck you, Blaine," he says, picking up his tray and getting to my feet, "You don't get to talk to me like that. You don't _know_ me. Stay the hell away from my boyfriend."

He leaves, and I try not to feel so dizzy.


	29. You Don't Get to Walk Out of my Life

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: You Don't Get to Just Walk Out of my Life**

I'm the last person to finish writing our Short Fiction Forms exam-the last exam of the semester-but I don't let it bother me.

Three and a half months ago when I first started at Avonroy, I was so insecure about everything I wrote that I would stay up all night revising and rewriting and obsessing over every sentence. The fact that I can now write a short story that I'm reasonably proud of within a three-hour exam time slot must mean I'm making progress, so I don't let being the last one in the room bother me.

When I make my way up to the front of the otherwise deserted classroom to hand in my paper, the professor hands me back my final assignment, which I handed in last week, and she says, "Stick around, Anderson. Let's chat."

I grimace, accepting my assignment from him and staying put in front of his desk. "Uh… Okay. What's up?"

I seriously want to check the grade on my story.

The professor, Don, says, "Where're you from, kid?"

I haven't thought of myself as a kid in a long time, and I don't know what to make of being called one now. "I was raised in Ohio."

"Ohio, huh? Hmm." He stares at me without shame.

I don't want to make any sudden movements.

"And how old are you?"

I hesitate. Is it even appropriate for him to be asking me that?

"I'm twenty-two."

He smiles. "So you're a twenty-two-year-old kid from Ohio. Blaine Anderson."

I shrug. Don's expression changes, and he says, "Look, Blaine, The writing program at Avonroy is full of exceptionally hardworking and skilled writers, and I don't want to cheapen the potential of any of them by picking favourites, but every once in a while, a writer comes through my classroom who I really start to root for, and you're one of them."

Well shit. It's already been proven that my ego can be a dangerous thing. The last thing I need is for someone to massage it.

"Oh," I say quickly, "Uh…"

"I'm not saying that you're the most talented writer here, I'm just saying that when I read your work, and I observe you in class, I want you to succeed."

I shift a little, unsure of how to respond to this.

Don doesn't give me a chance to decide what to say. He says, "Blaine, I've lived at Avonroy for longer than you've been alive. I've seen a lot of talent come up this mountain. A lot of broken talent. Because that's what Avonroy attracts. Broken talent."

He pauses now to let me ask him what he means by broken talent.

I ask.

"Blaine," Don says, "Avonroy has some of the best post secondary arts programs in North America. Our graduates consistently go on to become wildly successful in their fields. We're one of the most prestigious arts academy's in the world, and we're located on the side of a mountain, a zillion miles away from any other artistic opportunities. What does that tell you?"

I frown uncertainly, and ask, "What should it tell me?"

He says, "We don't accept students to Avonroy who aren't already skilled enough in their crafts to be successful professionals if they set their mind to it. Most of the people here should be out there in the real world, auditioning, networking, playing shows, looking for representation, interning, and building careers. Instead, they're isolating themselves on a mountain, where they have no chance of getting discovered until they graduate and rejoin reality. Do you see what I'm saying?"

I say, "I guess. Avonroy is a hiding place. I think we all know that on some level."

He says, "Avonroy is a place where artists come because they're afraid to fail if they really try to succeed in the real world. Or because they've burned too many bridges with their red-hot ambition to have anywhere else to go. Or because they… they're so burnt out on trying to please other people that they need to remind themselves why they love their art. Avonroy is for the artists who can't cope with reality. It's for the broken talent that needs a chance to be rebuilt."

I think that he's right, but that maybe it's not quite as black and white as that.

"But then," Don says, "Every once in a while, a kid like you will come along. And I don't think that your talent is broken. I think you're one of the few undamaged talents in this place."

And this is where he's completely off the mark. Don continues, "I don't think you're here to avoid the publishers or the producers. I think you're here because you don't care about them. You're here because you love to write, and ambition has nothing to do with it. And I think that that's a beautiful thing."

I guess he _is_ kind of right about that part.

"What makes you think that?" I ask.

He says, "Because your writing isn't self-conscious and it doesn't try to be anything that it's not. Your stories aren't attached to anything except the sincerity with which you write them. And that's an incredibly rare quality for writing to have."

"Is it a good quality?" I ask.

Don shrugs. "You wouldn't be here if you weren't good. And rarity is never a negative as long as the talent is real. I think having more purpose to your work could do a world of good or a world of bad. I'm not gunna give you advice on that. I just want you to give it some thought. Because I'm rooting for you to be successful, but I don't know if you really understand what success means to you."

I say, "I think I'm starting to figure it out."

Don says, "Well, keep at it. You're something special, Blaine. And I want to know your story. You've got to have a good one. Nobody with as much talent as you is as unmotivated as you are without a good reason."

I can't tell if he's asking me to tell him my story, or if he's just telling me that he wants to know it.

"Anyway, have a good Christmas, Blaine. Great job this term."

And with that, he shoos me out of the room, and I'm left wondering exactly what the conversation I just had was about.

"There you are!" Holly is waiting for me in the hall, "Took you long enough? Jees. How'd you think you did?"

I shrug. "Fine. It was fun. I think. What about you?"

Holly rolls her eyes. "I think I failed miserably. But that doesn't matter. The important thing is that it's over. We're done. Let's celebrate."

I say, "I don't think I want to celebrate. You seem a little too indifferent to the fact that you don't think you passed. Please don't tell me that you're still planning on dropping out?"

"I'm not dropping out, Blaine. I'm flunking out. I'm not gunna get the credits I need to go on to the next term. And I'm okay with that. I'll move in with Paul."

Fuck.

"Are you sure, Holly? Sure that it's a good idea to go back to a guy from you past when you've only barely moved on from all of your… past?"

Holly runs her fingers through her hair, frowning. She says, "Yeah. Blaine, Paul and I are just… I mean, neither of us are ever going to be truly happy with anyone else until we give each other a real shot. We've both tried to fight it for too long. I asked you out the night I got back from Karin's wedding because I'd spent the weekend with Paul trying to convince myself that I didn't need him, because I had you. If I hadn't been so desperate to let go of him, I'd never have deluded myself into thinking you and I were ever going to be anything. But I'm done kidding myself. Paul's a great guy. And I'm clean, sober, healthy, and more emotionally stable than I've been in years. Now is our time. The time for Holly and Paul. So please, Blaine. Just be happy for me. Stop judging."

I hug her. "I'm not judgeing. Well. I'm trying not to judge. And I am happy for you."

She says, "Good. Because I bought my ticket yesterday; I'm going to Hawaii with him and his entire family for Christmas."

My heart sinks like a stone. "Really?" I ask, "Hawaii? For Christmas?"

Her jaw drops a little as she sees the look on my face. "Oh fuck," she says, going a shade paler than usual, "Blaine, I'm so sorry. You don't have anyone to spend Christmas with, do you?"

I grimace at her wording. I don't have anyone. "It's fine," I say quickly, "I'll check into a spa in the village and enjoy some me time."

She shakes her head. "Oh Blaine, that's awful. I don't have to go to Hawaii. I can stay."

"No!" I say, really meaning it, "You already bought the ticket. And you need to go and be with Paul. Get to know him again. See if you and him are still a viable option. Before you move in with him."

"But the thought of you spending Christmas alone…"

I say, "Holly, my father disowned me when I was fourteen. I haven't spent a Christmas with anyone I cared about in eight years. It's really not a big deal."

"He wouldn't even see you on Christmas?"

I say, "My dad disowned me because my very existence was a sin. Do you really think that I was allowed back in the house on a sacred religious holiday? No."

"But surely your mother…?"

I say, "Mom and I usually celebrated Christmas together on New Years Day. She and Dad always flew to California for the real holiday, because that's where all of my grandparents live, and my brother."

"She wouldn't even stay to be with her son?"

I feel my guard go up as I hear the criticism in her voice. Defensively, I say, "She had other family, Holly. Parents. Another son. And those people actually shared her religion and her love of Christ. I wasn't going to make her sacrifice that for me. I don't believe in Christ. Christmas doesn't mean nearly as much to me as it did for her."

Holly looks embarrassed. "Okay," she says, "I'm sorry. But anyway… I should stay. Just because you're used to Christmas alone doesn't mean it's okay."

I say, "Holly, you know I can't let you stay. I'm going to be miserable on Christmas either way. Too many bitter memories. You don't need to be subjected to that. Enjoy your holiday."

She nods. "I'd argue more, but I know you're never going to let me win. Just don't be afraid to call me anytime if you're feeling lonely."

"Oh, I'll call," I assure her, "I'm going to call you every day for the rest of your life. You don't get to just walk out of my life. You're the best friend I've ever had. And please. Don't tell me how pathetic that is."

She smiles widely, and gives me a big hug. "Best friends forever, Blaine."


	30. I Don't Have Anything to go Home To

**Chapter Thirty: I Don't Have Anything to go Home To**

The night before Holly leaves Avonroy for good, she and I go to the movies in the village and then spend hours and hours talking in a restaurant. It's very very late by the time I get back to my room, and it's very very obvious that Kurt didn't expect me to be coming home tonight, because he's lying on his bed, on top of the blankets, face down on his pillow with all of his clothes on and lying very very still when I enter the room.

"Kurt?" I ask quietly, wondering if he'd passed out or something.

But he lifts his head off the pillow and turns away from me, mumbling something, and I realize that he's crying.

"Kurt?" I ask again, telling myself that I'll leave him alone if he doesn't respond again.

But he sits up and leans against the wall, looking down off of his bed at me with miserable, red and swollen eyes.

I climb up onto his bed and sit next to him. "Do you want to talk?" I ask.

Kurt moves closer to me and puts his head on my shoulder. He doesn't say anything for a few moments, but he's not sobbing or anything, so I try to stay calm.

"Jeremy's gone," he says finally

I stay very still, and ask, "He's gone?"

Kurt nods, starting to cry again. "He got signed by some talent agency in Hollywood over the summer. Now they want him in LA for auditions and stuff. And he says that he can't justify staying at Avonroy anymore, when there are bigger opportunities elsewhere."

I rub his shoulders and say quietly, "He has a point, Kurt."

"He says that he and I are over. He says that he needs to make a clean break. So that we can both stop feeling obligated to pretend we're compatible. So that we can move on and stop trapping ourselves in a relationship that is slowly killing us. So he's giving up on the best education in the world to get away from me."

I can't help but wonder how much my conversation with Jeremy had to do with his decision. I say, "Kurt, Jeremy's got bigger and better things waiting for him out there. Don't feel guilty about his education. How are you feeling about him ending things? That's what's important."

Kurt shrugs. "I fucking love him for ending it. For doing what I was too… stupid or stubborn or something to do. He gave up on us. It takes a lot of courage to give up on things, Blaine. I thought my heart would break if Jeremy and I ever parted ways, but all I feel is relief. Relief and a bit of guilt."

I say, "I'm serious, Kurt. Don't feel guilty. He made his choice."

"I'm mostly feeling guilty about my own lack of courage. It should have been me to end it."

I don't have anything to say to that, so I just squeeze his shoulders and let him cry for a while.

Finally, he says, "I just… Fuck, Blaine. I feel like my whole life was wrapped up in that relationship for so long, and now that it's over… I mean, I'm not crying because I don't want it to be over… I'm just overwhelmed by all of the… all of the choices I have, now that Jeremy's not… I dunno. I just feel so free, and I hate it that it took him ending it for me to realize how trapped I was feeling. And now I don't know what to do or where to go."

I say, "It's not gunna be easy, Kurt. I don't know what to tell you. I think you need to go home and enjoy your Christmas and remind yourself of who you were before Jeremy. Figure out who you're going to be after him."

Kurt nods.

I add, "And then come back to Avonroy. Come back to Avonroy and work with me on my musical. Like we talked about."

He smiles. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that. We really should do it."

"Yeah. We should."

He pauses, looking at me absently. "Are you going home to Ohio for Christmas?" he asks.

"No," I say, trying not to grimace visibly.

"Really?" he asks, "Well, I could give you a ride if you want."

"No," I repeat, "No."

Kurt says, "No, it's no trouble. I mean, it's a very long drive, and I'd love some company. I'm going anyway. I wouldn't even ask for gas money."

I tell him, "Kurt, I don't have anything to go home to in Ohio. But thanks for the offer."

His face falls. "Oh. Okay. So where's your family now?"

I hesitate. Is there even an answer to that question?

He blushes and says quickly, "Sorry. Dumb question. I just meant-what are you doing for Christmas?"

I wonder again about how much Kurt overheard me telling Holly at Jeremy's party last month.

I say, "I don't really have plans yet. I'll probably just start working on a script for the musical, and maybe marathon some TV shows."

"Fuck," Kurt says, "That sounds awful. Why don't you come to Lima with me then? Spend Christmas with my family. It's gotta be better than being alone."

I shudder at the thought of going back to my home state. "No," I say, "No no no. Again, thank you for the offer, but the thought of setting foot in Ohio again is a little too nauseating."

Kurt frowns, but doesn't press the issue.


	31. We'll Have Each Other

**Chapter Thirty-One: We'll Have Each Other**

The campus empties out so quickly the day after term ends that it seems like the earth's gravitational pull has amplified, pushing people down off the mountain.

I watch Holly drive away and I actually feel like crying, which I'm not allowed to do when I'm trying so hard to convince myself that Holly knows herself well enough not to make a huge mistake.

I just don't know how she can put so much faith in one other person. I feel like Holly has decided that this Paul guy is the solution to all of her problems, and I don't know if it's because I'm too emotionally stunted to ever trust anyone that much that it bothers me, or if it's because she's really making a huge mistake.

But I guess she has to live her own life.

Kurt sees me sitting outside on a pile of packed snow that has been cleared off of the parking lot, and he comes over to talk.

"Aw, Blaine, you look so sad," he says, "Come for lunch with me in the cafeteria?"

I nod and wordlessly follow him down the boardwalk.

We fill our trays with food and find a seat in the corner of the mostly empty cafeteria.

"So your friend Holly's dropping out too, huh?"

I wonder for a moment who else is dropping out, and then I remember Jeremy.

"Yeah," I say, "She is. So I guess you and I are both gunna be a little lonely next term."

Kurt shrugs. "We'll have each other."

I try not to read into that too much. He and Jeremy only broke up last night.

I pick the olives off of my pizza, and Kurt says, "You know, the more I think about it, the more I really think that you should come to Ohio with me."

I grimace and try not to shudder.

He laughs with a sort of desperate tone, and says, "No, I'm serious. It's a two day drive. I don't know if I can do it alone right now."

Of course he'd twist it around to make it seem like I'd be doing him a favour. But he does have a point. Driving alone for two days fresh off of a break-up seems like a really awful thing.

I say, "Kurt, I get it. But Ohio…" I actually do shudder now. Kurt raises and eyebrow. I say, "I don't know your family, Kurt. What are they going to think when some random guy shows up to Christmas uninvited?"

He says, "They'll be glad that they could help brighten someone's holiday."

It'd take a lot to brighten my holiday.

Kurt says, "Please, Blaine? The idea of you here all alone will drive me crazy, especially on that long drive. If we get there and you're uncomfortable with my family or something, you can always go visit friends in Westerville, or fly back to Montana or something. Just come on the road trip with me?"

I don't know if I trust myself to be alone with Kurt for such a long period of time right now. He doesn't deserve to have to deal with another guy wanting a relationship with him when he's barely wrapping his around breaking up with Jeremy. I don't know if I have enough self-control not to make it obvious that I want to be more than friends.

But then again, I think he already knows what I want, and he's inviting me anyway.

I say, "Kurt, you understand that I'm kind of a scrooge, right? I'd probably just bring everyone down. Christmas doesn't mean the same things to me as it does to you."

He says, "You can't be a scrooge in my family. Maybe this is your opportunity to experience Christmas in a brighter way." He gives me puppy eyes, and says, "Come on, Blaine. Be spontaneous. Do something you're uncertain about. It'll be over before you know it anyway. Please?"

I guess there is a certain wisdom to the idea of taking chances. I might really regret passing up this opportunity to get to know Kurt better.

If only he didn't live in Ohio…

But really, it's not like Lima is Westerville.

I ask, "When are you leaving?"

"Right after lunch." Kurt is smiling now, because he knows what I'm going to say.

I say, "Okay. I'll do it. But you have to promise me that this you'll call your parents before we leave to make sure it's okay."

He nods. "Absolutely. Do you have a driver's licence?"

"I do," I say, "But I haven't driven since high school..."

He says, "If we can take turns driving, we don't have to stop to sleep, and we'll get there faster."

I nod. "Okay. We can do that."

"Okay. Let's do it then. I'll help you pack."


	32. This is Awkward as Fuck

**Chapter Thirty-Two: This is Awkward as Fuck**

We've barely been on the road for an hour before I profoundly regret my decision to spend two days in a car with a boy I'm in love with but who is completely off-limits right now.

This is awkward as fuck.

I think that I'm much too aware of the tremendous potential for profound conversation and connection that being alone together for endless hours presents to be able to actually utilize that potential.

I don't want to seem too eager. I don't want Kurt to feel pressured into letting go of Jeremy any sooner than he's ready just because there's another guy ready and willing.

And I really don't want to be a rebound.

We're driving through a beautiful part of the country, and Kurt's playing some great music from his car's stereo, so I try to just lean back and enjoy myself and not obsess over the complete lack of talking either of us seem capable of.

I really should have just stayed home and avoided this whole mess.

We get to Great Falls after eight hours of awkward silence. I realize that we're only about halfway out of Montana, and we still have North Dakota, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, and Indiana to get through before we arrive in Ohio.

I don't think I can do this.

We fill up the car with gas, get drive-through burgers and fries, and keep on driving.

"Do you want to take over driving before the sun starts setting?" Kurt asks finally, after we've finished eating, and we're driving through the middle of nowhere.

It's been so long since I've drove a car that I agree that it's a good idea to get behind the wheel before it gets dark. Kurt pulls over and we trade seats.

Kurt looks incredibly nervous, and I don't have a lot of confidence in my own driving skills either, but his apprehension annoys me and makes me anxious.

I put the shifter into first gear, check to make sure that no other vehicles are coming up the highway, and I step on the gas and let go of the clutch.

The car stalls.

Kurt grimaces, and I apologize. "Sorry," I say, "Like I said, it's been a long time."

I restart the engine, and Kurt watches me closely.

I stall the car again.

He says, "You do know how to drive stick, don't you?"

Nodding, I say, "In theory."

"Oh, that's reassuring," Kurt says sarcastically.

"My dad taught me when I was like twelve years old. But that was ten years ago, I guess." I try not to blush.

I haven't thought about Dad teaching me to drive in years, and remembering that day makes me feel a little nauseous. That was a great day.

Kurt groans. "Fuck. Alright. It's a good thing there's no traffic. Just go easy on the gas and take your foot off of the clutch slowly. Slowly."

It takes me another three tries, but I finally get the car into first gear and onto the highway. I'm so embarrassed I can feel my cheeks burning.

Gripping the sides of his seat with white knuckles, Kurt says, "Okay now put your foot back on the clutch and shift up to second."

I do as he says, trying not to feel humiliated, and the car lurches a little as I'm too quick to let go of the clutch. But the car shifts up.

By the time I've got the car up into fifth gear and we're driving at sixty miles an hour, I think that Kurt is going to puke. I keep both of my hands tight on the steering wheel and my eyes on the very straight, very empty road, hoping that I can stay in this gear for a very long time.

Luckily, we're in the middle of nowhere, so this doesn't seem to be a problem, and Kurt eventually relaxes.

I say, "If you're uncomfortable with me driving your car, I completely understand."

He shakes his head. "You're doing fine. Unless _you're_ uncomfortable. I won't force you to drive if you don't want to."

I quickly shake my head. "It's fine."

He nods, and repeats unnecessarily, "You're doing fine."

The sun starts to set, and Kurt starts nodding off, but he tries to keep himself awake.

I tell him, "You might as well sleep, Kurt. The sooner you get some rest, the sooner we can switch drivers."

He gives me a guilty look, and asks, "Are you sure? You're not gunna start falling asleep if I do?"

I shake my head. "I'm much too anxious of a driver to get sleepy."

"Are you gunna be okay driving in the dark? Do you know where we're going?"

I nod. "I'll wake you up if I need to, okay? Just get some sleep."

And with that Kurt is out like a light, reclined in the passenger seat with one arm over his face.

I keep my eyes on the road and try not to think about how beautiful he is when he sleeps.

This was a bad idea. I'm falling for him harder than ever, even when things between us are weird and uncomfortable.

I think that he's perfectly aware that I'd never have agreed to come on this trip with him if I didn't have a crush on him. And I think he's being quiet now because regretting his decision now.

Or maybe he's just quiet because we aren't compatible and we have nothing to say to each other.

Oh my god, I can't believe I agreed to do this.

As we cross into North Dakota, I desperately wish I could turn around and go back to Avonroy.

But the night goes on, and even though the road is straight and mostly deserted, my anxiety about driving Kurt's car doesn't decline. If anything happens and I crash the car or get pulled over by a cop, I don't think I can deal with it. I know how many people die in car accidents every months. I don't want to be one of them.

I'm gripping the steering wheel so rigidly that I can feel the skin on my palms forming blisters. I'm so tense that my bad shoulder is flaring up and making me even more afraid that I'm going to crash the car. I don't know if I'll have the strength left in my left arm to steer while I'm using my good arm to shift gears for much longer.

For hours and hours, my thoughts rotate between freaking out about being here with Kurt, freaking out about driving, and freaking out about the ever-increasing pain that all of this tension is causing to amplify in my shoulder.

It's pretty obvious that Kurt hasn't been sleeping well since his break-up with Jeremy, because nobody who isn't completely exhausted would be able to sleep for as long as he does in a moving vehicle. He stays asleep through the entire state of North Dakota, finally mumbling and stirring as we enter Minnesota at six in the morning.

I'm exhausted and barely able to feel my fingers anymore because of how tightly I've been gripping the steering wheel. My shoulder is so cramped up and painful that I can barely sit up straight, but I have to, since I'm still driving and terrified of moving my hands from the correct positions on the steering wheel.

"Mmm shit, how long have I been sleeping?" asks Kurt, finally straightening up and looking around himself.

"Ages," I say, "We just crossed into Minnesota."

He blinks and rubs his eyes. "Jesus. You've been driving all night. I'm so sorry. You should have woken me up. Pull over. I'll drive."

I don't argue. I stop the car, and Kurt and I get out o the car. I try to stretch out my arm while I'm walking around the car to get into the passenger seat, but it hurts so much to move it after holding it so tense for so long that I almost cry out in pain and decide against trying to stretch until my muscles have relaxed a little.

Kurt drives us into Fargo, where we get gas and breakfast at a rest stop and then continue on our way.

"Sorry," Kurt says, "You must be exhausted. This has been a horrible road trip so far. Please don't hate me."

I laugh, glad for the acknowledgment of the horribleness. "It's fine," I say. "At least now I've brushed up my driving skills."

He says, "Yeah, and we're making better time than I've ever made. If we keep it up, we could be in Lima by midnight."

At this point, the idea of sitting in a car for another fifteen hours makes me want to die, but I just smile and nod. I'm too tired for conversation.

I ignore Minnesota and try to fall asleep as the sun starts to rise.


	33. Because That's How You Heal

**Chapter Thirty-Three: Because That's How You Heal**

I'm so tired after having not slept in close to twenty-four hours that I feel dizzy and gross, but I'm in more pain than I can remember being in for a long time, so sleep only comes in twenty minute intervals, interrupted by pinching and screaming from the cramped up mass of ouch inside my shoulder.

Still, after driving all night I'm tired enough to fall back asleep quickly after each time the pain wakes me up, and by the time the pain gets too intense to let me return to slumber, it's almost noon, and I feel reasonably rested.

"Can't sleep?" asks Kurt, after I've spent about half an hour squirming in my seat, unable to find a position to sit in that doesn't hurt like hell after about thirty seconds of sitting still. Unfortunately, there are only so many options for sitting positions in this car, so I'm mostly just miserable.

"No," I say, "Can't sleep."

He says, "Your shoulder's really bugging you, huh?"

I nod,

"There's some aspirin in the glove compartment if you think that'll help."

I take an aspirin.

An hour later, it's only getting worse, and it's starting to become unbearable. All I can think about is getting my hands on a Percocet or something that will numb this before I lose my mind.

I suddenly realize that Kurt is watching me. When I make eye contact with him, he quickly turns back to watch the road

"What do you need?" he asks me, "Do you want to stop for something?"

Humiliated, I realize how apparent my pain must be across my face. I'm practically in tears.

"Maybe I just need a walk," I say quickly, "Is that okay?"

Kurt nods. "We've been driving for more than twenty hours. Let's take a break. Would walking really help?"

I say, "I just need to stretch everything out. I think. Sitting too long has gotten it all cramped up."

He says, "Okay. I'll pull over at the next rest stop. We should get lunch anyway."

Ten minutes later, Kurt and I are walking down an icy walking path beside some random truck stop outside of Minneapolis.

"Getting any better?" Kurt asks.

I lie, "Yeah. I think it's loosening up."

Kurt says, "You're a liar."

I don't respond. He says, "Blaine, you're obviously miserable. We can't sit in the car for another fifteen hours when you're in so much pain. Should we get a hotel room? Would sleeping in a real bed help?"

Blushing, I say, "No. That's not necessary. Honestly, I don't know what to do. It doesn't usually get this bad. I shouldn't have been gripping the steering wheel so tight for so long."

"I'm sorry," Kurt says, "I shouldn't have let you. Should we try to find a clinic? Surely a doctor could prescribe something for the pain."

I say, "I can't take anything stronger than an aspirin."

He raises an eyebrow. "Drug allergies?" he guesses.

I realize again how little Kurt and I actually know about each other.

"No. Uh. I've just… I've been known to get a little… carried away with narcotics. So I avoid them now."

Kurt raises his eyebrows, and I suddenly realize how ridiculous it is for me to feel the need to skirt around the truth like that. I laugh, maybe a little desperately.

He raises his eyebrows even further. "What?" he asks.

I say, "I'm sorry. I just don't know why I phrased it that way."

He smiles. "Yeah. I don't know either. You're an addict, huh?"

I ask, "Does that make you respect me less?"

He shakes his head. "No way." He looks at me searchingly, and says, "It surprises me, but doesn't make me lose respect. You're clean right now, right?"

"Yeah. Almost ten months."

He says, "I don't really know anything about addiction or what your life has been like, but you clearly suffer from chronic pain, so the fact that you don't use that as an excuse to keep using shows a lot of strength. It only increases my respect for you."

I grimace a little, and say, "Well. It took almost killing myself with heroin to reach this point, so…"

"Really? Heroin? Fuck."

I say, "It's actually not a very far jump from the sort of painkillers I was on to heroin. But I'd been abusing all kinds of narcotics for years and years before I got there. Uh… yeah."

More awkwardness overcomes me, and I wonder why I decided that telling the man of my dreams about my deepest shame was a good idea.

He says, "Don't be embarrassed. I'm glad you told me. And it all started when you were injured?"

I nod. "I was fourteen."

"Yeah, you told me. You got beat up at a dance?"

I nod again and try massaging my shoulder with my right hand.

"Here," Kurt says, pointing to a bench, "Sit down. I'll give you a massage."

I blush a little, and say, "Oh. No, that's fine."

He rolls his eyes. "Don't be stupid."

So I let him massage my shoulder, and his fingers seem to know exactly what to do to make it finally start to relax.

Kurt asks for more details about my shoulder injury, and somehow, I start telling him the whole story.

And then I find myself tell him, "By the time I regained consciousness, the entire town knew exactly what had happened, and of course that included my parents. I hadn't come out to them yet."

Kurt grimaces. "That can't be good. How did they react?"

I say, "Before I'd even spoken to a doctor about the full extent of my injuries, my father had disowned me."

"No way." Kurt swears and stops massaging my shoulder. "Right there in the hospital?"

I nod. "My father believes that homosexuality is an unforgivable sin. He hasn't let me back in the house since then."

Kurt has gone a little bit pale. "Fuck him."

I shrug. "Anyway, between all of the surgeries and having to deal with the PTSD from the assault, getting sent to boarding school, coping with my father disowning me… I guess it was just easier to dumb it all with drugs. So I just started taking higher and higher doses of my painkillers… and then crushing and snorting them… and it wasn't hard to get my hands on other pills at Dalton."

"So you were using… even when you were competing in show choir and stuff?"

I say, "I don't think I'd have had the courage to do it otherwise. But I thought it was all under control. I functioned well. I had great grades… I thought I had great friends… the Warblers won Nationals my senior year. I used the drugs to avoid my actual problems and enhance the things that I thought made life worthwhile."

Kurt picks up some snow in his hands and starts packing it into a snowball, staring out at the frozen river. He says, "And I bet nobody at Dalton ever guessed how fucked up you really were."

I laugh, even though it's not funny. I say, "I went through something pretty traumatic, and then my entire life was uprooted, and I found myself at that school. It was too easy to avoid dealing with the past and just focus on starting over. At Dalton, we were sheltered enough from reality that it was easy to pretend that everything off-campus didn't matter. Not unlike Avonroy, really. So no, I don't think anyone at Dalton really knew me."

Kurt smiles. "Dalton sounds a lot like Avonroy in some ways."

I say, "You could be right about that. But I think that the isolation of Dalton is a big part of why my substance abuse never had to get too out of control while I was in high school. I didn't need as many drugs to avoid reality there as I did once I graduated and moved to New York. It wasn't until I started at NYU and the pressure and the reality were really there that the drugs became a real problem."

Kurt says, "And yet you got clean and came to understand yourself well enough to rationalize why it all happened. I think that's pretty cool, Blaine."

I can't help but smile. "I don't know if rationalizing everything the way I do necessarily means that I've dealt with it. But yeah. I think I'm stronger than I've been in a long time."

He asks, "So if your dad disowned you though, how did you afford the tuition at Dalton?"

I say, "Mom was always there for me. She paid my hospital bills and my tuition and found me places to go in the summer and all that."

"But she never left your father?"

I say, "Divorce was never an option for either of them, for religious reasons. But Dad never forgave her for not renouncing me, and staying with him destroyed her."

"So she's…?" Kurt hesitates, frowning at me.

I say, "She died, yeah. Two years ago. Suicide."

"I'm so sorry, Blaine."

Awkwardly, I say, "We don't have to talk about this anymore. I'm sorry. You don't need to know my life story."

He says, "No, I want to." He grimaces and adds, "I want to know, I mean. I mean, I want you to talk about it. I mean…" He blushes. "I just mean that I think that a huge part of healing from the sorts of things that you've been through comes from being able to tell your story. To have people listen or bear witness to what you've gone through. So never apologize for talking about it. Because that's how you heal."

Now I'm blushing. I hope he doesn't think that I'm more broken than I am. But what he says means a lot, and I'm actually touched.

I say, "I think that that's very wise, Kurt. Thank you."

He nods, reaching out to massage my shoulder some more with a smile. "How's it feeling now?"

"A little better," I say, heart suddenly racing as I become incredibly aware of his hand on my shoulder.

He says, "Good. I think you're just too tense. And maybe that's my fault. I pushed you to come with me."

I shake my head, turning to face him. "It was my choice to come. I want to be here. With you."

He smiles. "Yeah."

His cheeks are rosy in the winter air, and his breath rises in steamy puffs as it condenses in the cold. Even after sleeping in a car all night and not changing his clothes from yesterday, Kurt looks perfectly groomed. I have a feeling that my own hair is a curly mop of disaster, but I try to focus on him instead.

I realize how close together our faces have gotten.

"I'm really glad you came," Kurt says, "Really glad."

His lips reach mine, and I don't know which of us leaned forward first. We kiss, and his hand comes up off of my shoulder and into my hair.

And then we break apart, and we both stare out at the frozen river in front of us. I no longer feel the cold, or the pain in my shoulder; my whole body seems to be flushing with wonderful warmness.

Kurt takes my hand, and says, "Let's get some lunch. Come on."


	34. I Do Want to be With You

**Chapter Thirty-Four: I Do Want to be With You**

After lunch, Kurt fills a plastic grocery bag up with snow and gives it to me to put on my shoulder. By the time we're back on the highway, the pain is marginally bearable again.

Kurt says, "I don't want this to get awkward, but we need to talk about that kiss."

I nod and say quickly, "I'm not going to pretend that I'm not interested in more than friendship with you, but I don't think you're ready to go down that road."

He looks relieved. "I really like you, Blaine. Obviously. And I don't want to hurt you."

I say, "But _you're_ still hurting. I know. And I don't want to be a rebound fling. What you need right now is a friend, not a boyfriend. And I can be your friend. I want to help you work through what you had with Jeremy. And I don't want you feeling any pressure to move on."

He reaches over and squeezes my hand. "You're amazing, Blaine. But I don't think that's fair to you. I don't want you to feel rejected. I don't want to lose my chance with you. I just want… I just want to make sure that you understand that I need to take things slow."

I raise an eyebrow, heart racing. "So what are you saying? You want to be together?"

He gives me an almost guilty look. He says, "I do want to be with you. And you won't be a rebound. I've had feelings for you for a long time. Jeremy and I… well, we can talk about that later. What's important is that I feel things for you that I haven't felt since I was in high school. And I can't let that slip away."

I say, "Kurt, I feel the same way, but I really don't think that you're ready for this."

Nodding, he says, "If you're not comfortable with it, we can start very slow. Let's just get through Christmas as friends. So that when my dad asks us if we're dating, we can say no and not be lying. That takes some pressure off of you. Especially since they know I only just broke up with Jeremy. It'll save awkward questions."

I nod, grateful.

He says, "But if things happen between us… I mean, just… don't feel guilty, okay? Because you're not pushing me. You don't need to pretend that you're not attracted to me. Because I'm attracted to you. And I know myself enough to know what I need. And once we get back to Avonroy… well, let's just see where we're at, okay?"

The blood under my skin feels like it's forming whirlpools, spinning and suctioning. I want to kiss Kurt right now, but I retrain myself. I say, "Okay. You're amazing, Kurt. Really. Thank you."

He nods. "I know." He laugh, and then says, "I just knew that neither of us could deal with the tension between us I we didn't address it. So now you know. And now we can proceed from here with a mutual understanding."

I say, "Exactly. It feels good to know where we stand. Now maybe I can really enjoy this trip."

Kurt says, "You really have a grudge against Ohio, huh?"

I shrug. "I just haven't been there since I graduated Dalton. I wasn't welcome. Not even to my mother's funeral. But you're right; Lima isn't Westerville. It's fine."

He says, "You're welcome with my family. Trust me."

"Tell me about your family, then," I say, "So that when we get there I know what to expect."

Kurt says, "My dad's name is Burt. He's a congressman."

"Like… in the United States Congress?"

He nods. I say, "Wow. That's pretty awesome."

Kurt says, "He got elected when I was a senior in high school. He's also a mechanic and owns his own tire business. He comes across as kind of scary, but don't worry, he's the kindest man on the planet."

It's been a long time since I really interacted with anyone's parents. This is going to be weird.

"And I have a step-mom named Carole who is really great. Don't be alarmed if she insists on hugging you."

I turn to Kurt when he mentions his step-mother. I wonder where his real mother is. He catches my look, and says, "I was eight when Mom died. Car accident."

I feel a large amount of affection toward him. "I'm sorry, Kurt. I know it's tough."

He nods. "Yep."

We're both quiet for a while, and then he says, "Anyway, then I've got a step-brother, Finn, and he has a wife, Rachel. They were both in glee with me. You probably remember Rachel-she was the brunette girl who always had solos."

I vividly remember Rachel. She and I used to belong to the same central Ohio young performers theatre group, and we co-starred in plenty of productions. We always kept a friendly rivalry about whose show choir would beat whose, even though the Warblers never had a chance against her and I always knew it.

"Of course. She married Finn, huh? He was the tall guy. Good for her."

Kurt says, "She's understudying for the role of Elphaba on Wicked on Broadway right now, actually."

"Wow," I say.

He nods. "And Finn teaches music in Brooklyn."

I say, "They'll be in Ohio for Christmas?"

"Of course," says Kurt. "I think they're flying in this evening."

I ask, "Why do you drive, anyway? Surely flying can't be that much more expensive, with gas prices what they are."

He shrugs. "I don't like flying."

I wonder what the story behind that is. I raise an eyebrow.

He says, "I'm not afraid of flying or anything. I just prefer driving. Isn't there something really grounding about driving across the country? It gives you perspective."

I think it's really just exhausting.

Kurt says, "Think about all of the lives we've driven through in the last twenty-four hours. All of the communities and the relationships and the jobs and homes we've passed by. I think it helps you appreciate where you're coming from and where you're going if you can experience everything in between."

I smile, but I still think that flying would be easier.


	35. I Thought You'd Dropped Off the Planet

**Chapter Thirty-Five: I Thought You'd Dropped Off the Face of the Planet**

Kurt's family lives in a nice house on the outskirts of Lima, but I'm relieved that none of his family have waited up for us. We pull into the drive at two o'clock in the morning. Kurt and I let ourselves into the house, and he and I go up to his room.

The room displays obvious signs of disuse, giving it the feel of a reluctant storage room trying to hold onto its bedroom roots, but there's a queen-sized bed with fresh sheets and blankets, which is all Kurt and I need right now.

"You're sure it's alright for me to stay in your bedroom?" I whisper, as Kurt and I finally change out of the clothes we've been wearing since we left Avonroy.

Shrugging, Kurt says, "I'm too tired to care. If Carole set up something else for you, she'll tell you in the morning. Let's just get some sleep."

So we both crawl into bed, and I'm asleep before my brain even registers being under the same blankets as Kurt.

When I wake up in the morning, Kurt's arm is lying across my chest, and as soon as I realize where I am, my heart starts pounding. I get out of bed carefully and venture into the bathroom next door to take a shower.

It's not until I'm shampooing my hair that I wonder if it's rude to use someone else's shower without asking. But it's too late now.

When I get back to Kurt's room, he's just starting to stir, and I can hear someone downstairs in the kitchen, probably getting breakfast.

"What time is it?" Kurt asks groggily.

I tell him, "Almost nine."

He sits up and rubs his eyes. "I should take a shower. Do you want a shower?"

"I already took one."

So Kurt goes to shower, and I take my time choosing my clothes and styling my hair so that I don't have to venture out into the rest of the house until Kurt's ready.

Finally, Kurt and I make our way downstairs, where a group of people are laughing and talking over coffee and waffles.

"Kurt!" A balding man greets his son with a big hug. "Welcome home." He turns to me while the other three people in the room hug Kurt. "And you must be Blaine?"

I nod, reciprocating his firm handshake. "Hi. Thanks for having me."

"Glad to have you. I'm Burt," says Burt, as his wife approaches.

She gives me a hug and says, "I'm Carole. Welcome to Ohio. Where are you from, Blaine?"

"He's from Westerville," says a voice that seems to come right out of five years ago.

I look over and see Rachel Berry standing beside me, her long brown hair curling around her face and her beam radiant as she grins up at me.

I can't help but grin right back, and she says, "Blaine Anderson. I'd recognise that face anywhere. Wow."

I hug her, and say, "Wow, Rachel. You look great. Kurt says you married Finn. Congrats."

Her husband, a tall, burly guy who I remember sitting in the front row at the community theatre productions Rachel and I used to do years ago, says, "Wait, so you're that kid from that accapella choir, right? The uh…"

"The Warblers," Kurt says, nodding. "Small world, right?"

Rachel asks, "You and Kurt are roommates?"

We nod.

Burt says, "Yeah, I remember you guys. The private school, with the uniforms, right?"

"Yeah," says Carole, "They won Nationals the year after the New Directions did."

I nod my confirmation. Burt says, "Well, it's good to have you, Blaine. Make yourself at home. Coffee?"

Kurt and I start eating breakfast, and Burt asks, "So how was the drive? Kurt didn't make you listen to show tunes the whole time, did he?"

I laugh, and say, "Not the whole time. But it was good. Who doesn't love a road trip?"

"I don't," says Rachel, "I think Kurt's crazy to keep making that drive. What is it, like forty hours?"

Kurt says, "We did it in thirty-eight this time."

Carole says, "Well, we're all glad that you made it. Merry Christmas."

It's Christmas Eve. When I was a kid, this would have meant spending all day at various churches and seniors homes with my parents, helping my parents spread the lessons of Christ by playing songs about Mary and Jesus and the angels and the shepherds.

Elderly women could never congratulate my parents enough for the gift God gave them when they were blessed with a son with a gift like mine for expressing Christian values through song.

And then late at night, after candlelit services at both my parents' churches, we'd get on a plane and fly to California to cherish the blessing of family and pat ourselves on the shoulders for being honest, charitable people.

I often have a very difficult time associating that life with the life I'm living now.

The Hudson-Hummel's version of Christmas is a lot more secular and lot less annoying than my parents' ever was. Carole and Burt go out to do some shopping for tomorrow, leaving Kurt, Finn, Rachel, and I to decorate the Christmas tree.

"So how're you holding up, Kurt?" asks Rachel, giving him another hug while Finn and I try to untangle the lights for the tree.

It takes me a couple of seconds to figure out what she's referring to. But then Kurt says, "I'm not going to wallow in it," and I remember Jeremy.

Rachel says, "I'm sorry, sweetie. I thought you and Jeremy were perfect for each other. What happened?"

Kurt and I exchange glances, and I think that Finn notices. Kurt says, "We just grew apart, Rachel. People change. To be honest, we probably held on a lot longer than we should have."

Finn and Rachel move closer together, as if reassuring themselves about the validity of their long-term relationship. Finn says, "Honestly, I never cared for the guy. You'll be fine without him, Kurt."

I nod, but don't feel comfortable making any comment.

"Just let me know if you need some ice cream or a shoulder to cry on," says Rachel, "I know how rough break-ups can be."

Kurt says, "Thanks, but I'm really okay. Blaine was there for the worst of it. I think I really just need to do what I should have done six months ago and move on with my life. He's gone. I can't dwell on it."

Nodding, Rachel says, "Just because he's gone doesn't mean you don't still care about him, Kurt."

"I know. But if either of us had any doubt that breaking up was the right thing to do, we'd be fighting to stay together. Neither of us take what we had lightly enough to call it quits unless we knew it was the right thing to do."

I say, "Kurt's strong. He knows what he needs. He'll get through it."

Rachel looks at me in surprise, as if just remembering that I'm present. Finn and I have finally managed to wrap the lights around the tree while Kurt and Rachel have been talking.

"He's okay? Really? You promise?"

I nod, looking to Kurt, who looks amused by Rachel's concern. Finn is rolling his eyes. "That's why I'm here. To make sure the drive didn't overwhelm him with loneliness."

Grinning, Kurt nods. "And he did a good job."

"Uh…" Finn raises an eyebrow. "Just to be clear… you two aren't… doing it or anything, right?" He turns to me quickly, and adds, "Not that I'm saying you're gay. I don't know if you're gay. I mean-"

I laugh, shaking my head to save him from having to correct himself. I say, "I am gay. But Kurt and I are just friends."

Nodding, Kurt says, "We're roommates. And you guys, you put up those lights all wrong."

As Kurt starts re-stringing the Christmas lights and directing the hanging of ornaments, Rachel turns to me. "So. Blaine Anderson. Unbelievable. I thought you'd dropped off the face of the planet."

I shrug. Rachel was studying at NYADA while I was at NYU. The theatre world isn't that big, not even in New York. We ran into each other at shows and auditions and parties from time to time.

"I hear you're doing Wicked. That's unbelievable. Congrats."

She hits me. "Don't change the subject, Warbler boy. What happened to you? I was at the opening night of The World Again at the Minskoff two years ago. You disappeared at the end of the first act. And nobody ever heard from you again. People in your class at NYU thought you might be dead."

My heart seems to stop beating. Kurt has overheard Rachel, and now he's looking at me curiously. Finn is listening too.

I wait until my heart starts beating again, and I say, "Shit happens. Surprise. I'm still alive."

Rachel says, "Blaine, you _walked out_ of your Broadway debut. Who does that? Your reviews from the previews were outstanding."

Kurt says, "Rachel, he obviously doesn't want to talk about it. Drop it."

She looks a little affronted, but she doesn't press me.

But all three of them watch me closely as we hang more ornaments on the tree according to Kurt's directions.

"I'm sorry," Rachel says after Finn places the angel at the top of the tree, "But this isn't fair. I can't just stand in this room with Blaine and not know the truth. Do you know how often I wonder about you? We were friends once, weren't we?"

"Were you?" asks Kurt in surprise.

She says impatiently, "Community theatre, Kurt."

Finn puts his hand on Rachel's shoulder and says, "Rachel, Blaine obviously doesn't want to talk about it. Don't be rude."

But I know that none of them will stop wondering until I say something, especially not Kurt. He's staring at me with a newborn curiosity. My skin is tingling.

I ask Rachel, "You were really there that night?"

Nodding, Rachel says, "Are you kidding? I was way too jealous to miss it. And then you just disappeared. No explanation. Your understudy wasn't nearly as good. Whatever happened to "the show must go on"?"

I say, "I guess sometimes you just realize how little the show actually matters. Priorities change, Rachel. I had some bad news, and I left to deal with it."

Rachel looks appalled by the very thought, but she doesn't stop staring at me, waiting for me to give an explanation. My eyes are watering.

She says, "I get it if something happened so you couldn't finish that show. But to leave Broadway completely? How could you do that?"

Shrugging, I say, "My dreams were supposed to come true that night, Rachel, and instead my world came crashing down. And no matter how hard I try, I can't rebuild my life to fit with my old dreams. I'm studying writing at Avonroy now."

I rub the skin on my hands, which is burning with the anxiety of this conversation.

Rachel says, "What could possibly have happened to change your mind about an ambition you'd had since you were a toddler?"

I say, "Broadway wasn't my dream since I was a toddler, Rachel. I'm not you. There are plenty of people out there who change direction in life."

Kurt nods. "I'm proof of that."

Finn adds, "I still don't know if I_ have_ direction."

She pouts. "I just want to understand what happened. So that I can make sure it doesn't happen to me. I don't want to burn out."

I say, "Rachel, my Broadway dreams were built on denial and low self-esteem. I had a talent, and people just kept giving me more opportunities to use it. I didn't have to work for it the way you do. I just got to enjoy the applause and ignore the real problems in my life. Until the problems caught up with me, and I realized how little any of it mattered. But you're not like that. Theatre means more to you than getting to play make believe. You're not gunna burn out."

She smiles, but it's a weird, sad smile. "I guess I never really thought about why this is my dream," she says quietly.

I look down at my hands, feeling embarrassed.

Which when life presents me with the perfect opportunity to escape this conversation before I have to actually answer Rachel's question.

"Shit," I say, "Uh... Look at this." I hold out my arm to display the angry red rash that is springing up on my fingers and the backs of my hands and all of the way up my wrists.

Rachel grimaces, jumps back, and says, "What the fuck?"

Kurt and Finn both examine my skin, and I say, "I'm probably allergic to the tree. Don't freak out. I'll just go wash."

"I'll come with you," Kurt says quickly, and we both go to the down the hall."

I start scrubbing my skin with soap and water, and Kurt asks, "Does it itch?"

I say, "It burns more than anything. Don't worry, I've had reactions like this before. It's not a big deal. I have prescription allergy meds in my bag. It'll clear up in a few hours. "

He looks a little relieved. "You're sure?"

Nodding, I say, "I only pointed it out because I wanted out of that conversation."

Kurt gives me a hug. "I know," he says, "Rachel can be tactless." He kisses me, and whispers, "Still. I never knew. The World Again, huh? I'm sorry."

I shrug, tingling where his lips touched mine. "I've moved on."

"That was the night your mom died, huh?"

I nod. "Do you think I'm crazy for leaving Broadway?"

He hugs me again. "Rachel might not be able to understand, but I think I do."

I say, "Don't try to understand it. I don't think I understand it myself."

"Well, you're good at saying things that make it seem like you've got it all figured out."

I laugh, rinsing the soap off of my hands. We go upstairs so that I can find my allergy meds.

After I swallow the pill, Kurt asks, "You don't want everyone to know about your mom, then? Because you know they're all going to be wondering why you're not with your own family."

I grimace. "It's just… you know. It just makes everyone uncomfortable. I don't care if they know, I just don't want to have that conversation."

He nods, and asks, "So I can tell them if they ask? Because I'm pretty sure they will."

I say, "Just don't make it sound like I'm broken or something. I don't need anyone feeling sorry for me."

"Yeah," Kurt says, "I can do it. And if they ask you personally, just say that you don't have family, and I'll change the subject quickly. They'll get the hint."

Kurt is awesome. I give him a hug.

"I think I hear Dad and Carole," Kurt says, "You ready to go back downstairs?"

I nod. "Thanks for understanding, Kurt."

He kisses me again, but pulls away quickly. "Fuck. Sorry. I need to stop kissing you."

I shrug. "It's not like I'm trying too hard to stop you."

He shakes his head. "We agreed we'd wait until after Christmas. It's not fair to you if I change my mind now. That just makes things confusing. We have to understand each others' expectations."

See how awesome he is?

"Besides," Kurt adds, "My family is going to know in an instant if anything happens between us. They can read me like a book. I don't need that right now. Neither do you. So let's go downstairs."

I follow him downstairs, hoping that it's not written all over my face how much affection I have towards Kurt right at this moment.


	36. I Fucking Hate Westerville

**Chapter Thirty-Six: I Fucking Hate Westerville**

Apparently almost everyone who was in the glee club at Kurt's old high school the year that they won Nationals makes it a tradition to meet up in Lima every Christmas Eve to go caroling around the town, and I go with them today for a lack of anything better to do.

We meet everyone in a coffee shop down the street from McKinley High School, and Kurt introduces me as his roommate, Blaine. I don't recognise many of the faces despite competing against them constantly in high school, but they all seem to remember me.

"Wow. Blaine Warbler." A blonde guy says. "You kicked our asses at Regionals senior year. I don't know if I can speak to you."

Kurt says, "Since they won Nationals the year after us, I figured it would be safe to invite him caroling too."

"But I thought we'd agreed that this was our sacred time. Just us. Like old times." A blonde girl gives me an apologetic look as she says it.

I look out the window, uncomfortable.

"Well," says Rachel fairly, "I mean, he was a part of the show choir experience, right? The competition. So it must count."

There's a cemetery across the street from the coffee shop, paths twisting through the snow to gravestones here and there.

"I mean, we're not gunna send him away. I'm just saying. This is our time. To remember us."

I look at Kurt, who whispers, "Don't listen to Quinn. You're welcome here."

Still looking out at the cemetery, I say, "You know what? Maybe I should go. You should catch up with your friends. I'll… find something else to do."

He raises his eyebrows. "Like what?"

I shrug. "I'll think of something."

Giving me a shrewd look, he asks, "Do you want to borrow my car?"

My stomach drops a little. "Would you trust me with it alone?"

Shrugging, Kurt says, "Not really. But I think you know where you want to go, and I don't think that it's in Lima."

I give him a guilty look and almost change my mind. But he presses his keys into my hand, and says, "Just be careful."

And so the next thing I know, I'm halfway to Westerville, clutching Kurt's steering wheel and wondering if I've lost my mind.

I couldn't have gone caroling anyway. Christmas music depresses me, and I'm not sure I have it in me to perform even in a large group like that just yet.

When my father forbid me from attending my mother's funeral, he robbed me of a very important part of the grieving process. There's a reason that centuries of human societies have built ritual and ceremony around putting a body to rest. Funerals funnel the shock, denial and confusion of bereavement into a structured and a formal goodbye in the company of other grievers, facilitating acceptance and laying any doubts about the reality of the loss to rest along with the body.

I never got to do that. I was alone in another city, left with only the obituary on the church website as proof that what I was going through was real. I don't know if I'd have gotten closure if I had been at that funeral, but I know that having not gone, I've never felt like closure was possible. Life just sort of stopped happening, and I had nobody around me to make any of it seem real.

I don't even know where my mother was buried.

But I know where my grandparents were buried, and I park Kurt's car in the parking lot beside that cemetery.

It's strange being in Westerville again. Strange, uncomfortable, and surreal. The buildings are the same, the roads are the same, and everything is attached to some stupid memory, but the people and the lives occurring inside this town no longer mean anything to me. I just don't care about any of it.

I didn't have a terrible childhood. My mother had very wealthy parents who she inherited a lot of money from. We were always affluent, and I was raised to be grateful for that blessing. My parents were strict and religious, but they were never malicious or abusive. I resented being pushed into church activities and put on a display as a living, breathing, musical prayer machine, but I always had food to eat and a roof over my head. My parents were engaged in my life, and made an effort to be excellent parents. I know that there are a lot of people who can't say that they were that lucky.

Still, I knew from a very young age that I was gay, and I knew from that same very young age that being gay was something that my parents could never find out about. They loved me and I loved them, but being gay just wasn't something that was every going to be okay in our family. I endured so much bullying at school that having to pretend to be what I wasn't once I got home made me miserable.

So I hated Westerville with a burning passion from the time I was about eleven years old. I always figured that if I could just get out of that town, I could finally become the person I was really supposed to be. And then, after I ended up at Dalton and I was independent and popular and theoretically able to be whatever I wanted to be anyway, leaving town become less about escaping the things I hated as chasing the things I was addicted to: fame, performance, narcotics…

Basically, leaving Westerville was always supposed to be the best thing that ever happened to me, but now that I'm back here, I'm finding it hard to tell if my life ever really got any better since I've been gone.

I think it probably has, but not before it got significantly worse.

But that might be more about growing up than leaving here.

At any rate, it feels a little gross to be back. I fucking hate Westerville, but I think that this is something I have to do.

There are already footsteps in the snow leading down the row of graves where I know my grandparents are buried, and I follow them to avoid getting snow in my shoes.

I see my mom's dad's name on a headstone and I stare at it for a long time, too afraid to look at the headstone beside it, where the footsteps I'm following in end.

I remember my grandpa's funeral, but I'm not going to think about that right now. I have to concentrate on the task at hand.

I have a weird and almost disgusted feeling that the footprints I've been mirroring might have been my father's. But if he couldn't forgive me for the sin of homosexuality, could he really forgive her for suicide?

But then again, do you have to forgive someone to visit their grave?

I take two more steps and turn toward the headstone that I know will be my mom's.

And by the time I've stopped crying, the snow on the ground where I'm sitting has half-melted and then refrozen into a hard and uncomfortable disk of freezing cold ice.

_Christine Anderson. 1963 to 2015. The Lord watch between me and thee, while we are absent, one from the other. Genesis 31:49_

I wonder where my father and my brother are right now. Do they still speak to each other? Do they ever talk about me? Do they ever think about me? How have they coped with losing Mom? Does Dad still really think that punishing me for my sins is worth sacrificing so much for? Does Cooper blame me for the loss of Mom? Do either of them ever wonder if we can ever be a family again? Or is way too late for that already.

I've used to wonder a lot about my mother's reasons for doing what she did, and sometimes I think I understand, and other times I'm just angry and confused. Lately, I've given up even thinking about it. I can't think too much about it without feeling extremely guilty.

My mom lost everything when the whole town found out I was gay. And by everything I don't just mean her job and her relationship with her husband. I don't just mean the respect of her friends, and the welcome in her community. The belief system that defined everything about her life was stolen from her. In my mother's world, homosexuality was an unforgivable sin, and when she had to forgive me for it, that world of black and white religious law that she'd grown up with and built her life around started to crumble. She lost her sense of conviction and her sense of self. Her faith in God never wavered, but the way she approached faith and religion had to change, and for someone who once lived by such rigid beliefs, that isn't easy. It broke her.

And since her congregation fired her, her friends shunned her, her husband hated her, her volunteer projects closed their doors to her help, and the whole world just shut her out, she didn't have a lot of options for healing. My mom had lived her life inside a tiny community of very religious people, and once they cut her out and she was forced to confront the real world, she couldn't handle it.

I have no way of knowing what would have happened to my mother if I hadn't been gay, but I do know that my sexuality and everything that resulted from it was at the root of my mother's depression and suicide. I can't find a way to make that not true. What happened to her was my fault. I didn't choose to be gay, and I didn't choose to be beaten up and ruin my mother's life, but that's the way life happened, and no matter how rational I try to be, I can't stop blaming myself for everything.

Still, being right here, in Westerville, sobbing over her grave, somehow erases this feeling of unfinished business that I have about my mom. It's all very very real. It's all very painful and very confusing, but it feels complete for the first time. I might never find peace with my mother's loss, but sitting here in the freezing cold in the snow makes me feel like maybe I can compartmentalize it a little better. I can accept it a little better. Maybe I can understand it a little better.

Or maybe pop culture has just taught me to expect closure from graveside visits, and so I'm forcing myself to find some. Maybe fulfilling a cliché is comforting even if it is meaningless. Maybe I just needed to give myself permission to really and truly feel my loss, and being here in Westerville at her grave is what it took to let that happen.

The only thing that I know for sure is that I miss my mother. Twenty-two is still young enough to be allowed to think that losing a parent isn't fair, right?


	37. I'm Not Broken

**Chapter Thirty-Seven: I'm Not Broken**

I don't get back to Lima until well after nightfall, and I feel weird about walking back into Kurt's family's house on Christmas Eve after the intensely emotional last few hours that I spent with my own (absence of) family. So I sit outside in the car for a few minutes, psyching myself up.

Kurt's family is Good People. I can't believe how easy and natural it is for them to all just laugh and talk and love each other. I know that I have no right to feel resentful of their happiness, but I am extremely resentful. Most of the people in that house aren't even Kurt's blood relatives, but they treat him with a hundred times more respect and love than my own father and brother ever will.

Then again, _none_ of them are _my_ blood relatives, and they've welcomed me here with open arms, so I seriously need to tone down the angst and learn to be grateful.

Kurt comes out the front door of the house and opens the passenger seat of the car. "You made it," he congratulates me, taking a seat.

I nod, trying to shake off my reverie and self-pity as I undo my seatbelt. "Yep. Safe and sound."

"You okay?" he asks, squinting in the dim light as he studies my face the way he seems to love to do.

"Yeah," I say, too quickly, "Great. How was caroling?"

"It was wonderful," says Kurt, "Really wonderful. I can't believe it's already more than five years ago that we won Nationals. More time has passed since I've been a New Directions alumnus than I actually spent as a member."

It's a strange thought, and true for me of the Warblers too. "Weird."

Kurt says, "Yeah. But life goes on. And I wouldn't go back to being the guy I was then for a million bucks."

I smile a little, remembering my own high-school self-cocky, popular, sure of himself...

"You said you lived in New York for a few years after high school, right? What brought you there?"

He shrugs. "I thought I wanted to be an actor. Whatever."

"And what happened to that?"

Kurt says, "It wasn't really my calling."

"Oh come on. Something must have happened."

He shakes his head. "Not really. Not everyone's life is as dramatic as yours, Blaine."

I grimace a little, and he winces apologetically. "I just think that I thought that theatre was my calling because glee club was the first thing I ever did that made me feel like I belonged. I thought that it was the music and the performing that made me happy, but once I left Lima, I realized that it was the people in the glee club and the community that we formed that made glee special."

I nod slowly, wondering if we ever had that kind of community at Dalton.

"I grew up in a place where it wasn't okay to be who I was," Kurt explains, shrugging. "But in the choir room, or on the stage, it _was_ okay to be me. So naturally, as an eighteen-year-old kid, I built my ambitions around the very limited world experiences that I'd had. But once I reached New York… I mean, everything changed. I couldn't get into college, and I couldn't get cast in anything, so I got a job as a painter for an interior designer names Natalie so that I could pay rent."

I wonder how different my life would be now if it hadn't been so easy for me to chase a dream that wasn't right for me. If I hadn't been so very talented at something I was so very wrong for.

Kurt continues, "And it didn't take me very long to figure out that I had way more fun arguing with Natalie about what colour a room should be than I ever did trying to impress casting directors. Pretty soon I stopped auditioning at all. I started interning for Natalie as a trainee designer. Then I got a job as an assistant to a fashion designer. And then I got hired by a theatre company off-broadway to design costumes and sets. And then the theatre company gave me a scholarship to go to Avonroy, because I'm really good at what I do."

I say, "And all this just because you took a job as a painter to support yourself while you tried to make it in show business."

Nodding, Kurt says, "And I'm happy. I'm not saying that I would be unhappy if I'd have kept pursuing theatre. Maybe I'd be on Broadway by now. I don't know. But I found a different path, and I like it, so I have no regrets."

Smiling, I say, "I guess it's a lot easier to find a place to belong in the world outside of Lima, huh?"

He nods. "Yeah. I mean, I was always interested in design, but I never knew anyone else who gave a crap until I got that job painting. It was always an interest that made me feel isolated and got me made fun of. So naturally, I never pursued it. Once I figured out that there was a community and a culture around design that I fit into perfectly, I never really gave performance another thought."

I say, "I guess nobody really knows what they want to do with their life until they're already doing it, huh?"

Laughing, Kurt says, "I think you're absolutely right."

We're still sitting in the car, and it suddenly becomes very difficult not to address the reason why.

Kurt asks, "So uh… do you think you're ready to come inside yet?"

I see lights on in the living room and the shadows of Kurt's family moving around the room behind the curtains. My stomach churns a little. I say, "Just give me a minute." I feel my embarrassment colouring my face. "Sorry. I just… yeah. One minute."

"It's okay," Kurt says, "Do you want to talk about it?"

What does Kurt think is going through my head right now? How can he be so tactful and understanding when I'm behaving so irrationally?

"I went to my mom's grave today," I say. Kurt nods, his face unsurprised and full of compassion. I add, "I guess there's not much else to say that you couldn't guess."

He takes my hand in his. "I know, Blaine. I mean, I don't know… I can't know, but… I mean, yeah. I can guess."

I close my eyes. Pull yourself together, Blaine. Pull yourself together. Don't make Kurt regret bringing you here. You can do this.

I say, "I mean, she died more than two years ago, and I think I've come to terms it… or at least I've come to terms with the fact that I may never come to terms with it…"

Kurt almost smiles, in a faraway, sad kind of way.

I say, "But I just never even thought about her being in the ground until today. It never even crossed my mind."

He brings my hand closer to his chest, squeezing. "Oh Blaine."

I say, "And someone else had been to the grave before me. I could tell by the snow. I think it was my father. Not that I have any way of knowing. But…" I give my head a little shake. "Fuck. I'm sorry. Let's go inside."

Shaking his head, Kurt says, "Not yet. Blaine, I want you to stop feeling like you need to apologize for the fact that you're clearly struggling with something very real and very justified. You have to let yourself feel and talk about these things. Faking happiness to protect the happiness of others is only going to further damage your own emotional health."

Jesus fucking Christ, this boy is too wonderful for his own good.

I say, "You're probably right. But there's not much left to say that I haven't already thought about way too much today. It's just tough to transition from sitting on my mother's grave to enjoying Christmas festivities with someone else' happy family, you know?"

He nods. "I know. So take your time. But… can I just give you some advice?"

"Please do."

"Don't compare yourself to me. Don't look at my family as something to be jealous of. Because you don't have to be jealous of it. You're a part of it. Right now. I know that our circumstances and lives are drastically different, but I do know what it's like to lose a mother. I know how easy it can be to resent people who don't have giant gaping holes in their lives. But once I stopped resenting them and started just letting them fill those holes in a little… things got easier. Do you know what I'm saying?"

Nodding, I say, "I will do my very best. And I give you permission to punch me in the face if I'm being a Scrooge. I genuinely want to enjoy a Christmas for the first time in… well, I don't even know how long."

Kurt gives me a hug. "Good. But I won't punch you in the face. Because I keep telling you… you don't have to apologize for being miserable. You just have to stay open to letting other people dull the misery a little. And you can't let other people's happiness amplify the misery."

I almost kiss him, but that's not allowed just yet. "Oh fuck, Kurt," I say, "I hope you don't think I'm miserable. I'm not miserable. I'm not depressed. I'm not broken. I'm just having a tough day. Don't worry about me, okay?"

He seems to be about to kiss me too, but he also resists. "I know," he says, "I didn't mean to sound so condescending. You're a very strong person. And Christmas is a joyful time, so misery would be tough to pull off."

I nod. "So let's go inside," I say, "Before your family starts to wonder what we're up to."

"Oh, they're undoubtedly already wondering," Kurt grins, "But let them wonder."

We get out of the car and go back up to the house.

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_

_Since it's Thanksgiving weekend here in Canada, I thought I would interrupt the story for a moment right now to extend a sincere thank you to anyone out there who is reading this story and especially those who have taken the time to let me know that they are getting something out of it, for better or for worse. _

_I'm in a transitional period of life, seriously floundering over some tough choices about my life, and writing this story has been a source of comfort that I would never have found the motivation to continue if it weren't for the feedback I receive from you. I write miserable, depressing nonsense, and it makes my own life far less miserable and depressing when you assure me that people other than me find that sort of thing enjoyable._

_I don't want to sound like I take myself or this story more seriously than the story's quality merits, but I do want to take a moment to let all of you know how important it is to me that you are reading and engaging in the weird, angsty world I am building here. _

_So thank you all. And if you're Canadian like me, happy Thanksgiving! _


	38. A Relaxing, Comfortable Sort of Day

**Chapter Thirty-Eight: A Relaxing, Comfortable Sort of Day**

I follow Kurt's advice on Christmas Day, which turns out not to be very challenging, since Kurt and his family make it so easy to relax and have a nice time. Most of us sleep in on Christmas morning, getting up just before noon to open giant stockings stuffed with chocolate, candy, socks, and dollar store treasures from "Santa" in the living room while we sip coffee and enjoy the fragrance of the turkey cooking in the kitchen.

I find myself sitting next to Rachel, trading my almond bark for her candy canes and remarking about how great it is that Santa remembered us.

"I know," Rachel smiles, "I never got anything from Santa until I married into this family. I'm Jewish."

I say, "Yeah, there was no Santa in my childhood either. My parents never approved of distracting their kids from the miracle of Jesus' birth."

I sort of regret mentioning my parents as soon as I do, but Rachel makes no comment beyond, "I guess we're never too old to find the magic of Santa."

After a phenomenal turkey feast, everyone return to the living room to exchange gifts, and then we spend most of the afternoon talking, playing card games, and having a snowball fight in their back yard.

In the evening, we eat leftovers from the midday feast, and then we curl up in front of a movie.

It's such a relaxing, comfortable sort of day that I can't even begin to compare it to my own half-forgotten family holidays, and it's not until I'm back in Kurt's room getting ready for bed that I start to wonder if this is the sort of day that normal families have on Christmas, or if Kurt's family is just really special.

"Today was really nice," I say, "I'm lucky to have been invited. Thank you."

He smiles. "It was nice, huh? I think our family may have finally perfected Christmas."

I laugh. "Depending on your definition of perfect, I guess."

He says, "I just mean in terms of us. We haven't always been this good at it. I'm proud of us."

Smiling, I say, "If only all families could put up with each other long enough to find away to spend time together and enjoy it."

Shrugging, Kurt says, "I know I'm very lucky."

I think that Kurt is afraid to talk about his own life and struggles with me. I don't know if that's just me being a little self-important or if it's real, but I have a feeling that he's afraid of seeming ungrateful for the life and family he has, since my own life and family is sort of in shambles.

But I really want to know more about Kurt so that _I_ can stop feeling guilty for constantly burdening him with my emotional instability and offering him so little in return.

"How long have your dad and Carole been married?" I ask.

"Just over five years. They got married when I was a junior in high school."

"So Christmas really hasn't always been like this for you, huh?"

I think that Kurt can tell that I'm trying to get him to open up; he gives me a shrewd sort of nod, and says, "Before that it was just me and Dad for a lot of years, and Christmas was always depressing as fuck."

I grimace. "I suppose it must have been."

Nodding, Kurt says, "I mean, Dad was great at being a single parent and keeping a strong front up for me, but on holidays that got harder, and he's not a guy who easily shows his emotions. So on Christmas… it was just quiet and awkwardly emotional and bad."

He blushes, and adds, "Not that that's really worth bringing up now. Things change. We're past that now. I know that our relationship is stronger now for having to go through that then."

I say, "No, I think you have a right to acknowledge that things haven't always been easy. It keeps you grateful for what you have now. I guess things got a lot better once Carole and Finn were around?"

Shrugging, Kurt says, "In a way. The first few years weren't that easy, because Finn was pretty resistant to the idea of his mother replacing his father. I felt the same about my dad replacing my mom. And he and I had a lot of difficulty adjusting to being step-brothers. But yeah. I mean, eventually, we've reached this point where we can enjoy a holiday together without any awkwardness or arguments."

I say, "You and Finn seem to get along really well now."

Nodding, Kurt says, "I love the guy. But you have to understand… Finn was the quarterback on the football team. He was the most popular guy in our grade, and I was the gay kid. The bottom of the heap."

I know what it's like to be the bottom of the heap.

He says, "Glee club leveled the playing field a little, but it was still really weird for both of us to have grown up going to school together on different sides of the social spectrum, and then suddenly find ourselves brothers."

I say, "Yeah, that had to be weird."

He says, "It didn't help that I had a crush on him."

This I hadn't expected. Kurt says "I was young and lonely and he was attractive and kind to me. But he quickly became very very uncomfortable with me. Not homophobic, but just… well, you know how guys can be. We both did and said some stupid things. It took a long time for us to really feel like a family."

He pauses, and then adds quickly, "But even at our worst, all we did was argue and refuse to be in the same room together. It was petty high school stuff… Nothing like what I know you've gone through with your own family. I'm very lucky that we were all able to put our differences aside and become what we are now."

I don't know how to get it through to him that I just want to know who is and how he became that person, and that nobody's life is any easier or harder than anyone else', because everything is relative.

I say, "It's more than luck, Kurt. It's plain that your whole family is very deserving of the blessings you have received."

He raises his eyebrows, and I cringe, hearing the words hang in the air.

"The blessings?" Kurt asks, "You really believe that this is what this is?"

I'm still cringing. I say, "Ugh. I don't know. That's just how I was raised to think. I think that I've been thinking about my childhood so much that the old phrases that my parents used to say have seeped back into my head.""

Kurt says, "Hmm. Nobody in my family was ever religious. I consider myself an atheist. The idea of… blessings… that's a little bizarre to me."

"I don't mean that I think God is smiling down at you and rewarding you or anything. I don't believe in a god that works like that. I just meant that your family has faced difficult circumstances and not let it make you become difficult people. Whatever rewards you've received for being decent people, you earned and you built yourself. Disregard the word "blessing"."

He grins. "That's a sore spot for you, huh?"

I nod. "Yes. But we're not gunna talk about that right now."

He shrugs, and doesn't say anything more.

I say, "I think your family is really special, Kurt, and I'm really touched that you cared enough to let me be a part of this day. You're making it very difficult for me to honour our agreement to remain just friends until we leave Lima."

Kurt whispers, "Technically, we only agreed to wait until after Christmas."

"Well, it's almost midnight."

He takes my hand and pulls me to his bed. "Let's just cuddle for tonight. Tomorrow, we'll go on our first real date."

His body is slender and warm and fits against mine perfectly under the warm blankets of his bed. I fall asleep without wrestling with any of the usual anxiety and self-doubt. All I feel is safety and hope.


	39. This Story is Only Going to Get Worse

**Chapter Thirty-Nine: This Story is Only Going to Get Worse**

Kurt's suggestion for our first date isn't what I'd expected. He says, "I think we should start driving back to Avonroy today."

We hadn't planned to leave until the day after tomorrow.

He says, "I want to spend time with you, but I don't want to do it with my family around. I think that we should leave today, and take our sweet time driving back. We can stop at night and get hotel rooms. We can stop and see some stuff. Do some stuff. If we leave this morning, we don't have to be back in Avonroy for five days. You know."

I say, "That sounds cool. A proper road trip. I like that idea."

He nods. "I think it'll be more comfortable for you if we don't marathon the whole road trip again. We'll just take it slow and enjoy ourselves."

Like a vacation. For a first date. I nod. "Sounds nice."

Kurt asks, "Uh… just… can you afford it? I mean-I'm just not sure what your financial situation is like…"

"Money isn't a problem," I interject, "Don't worry about it. I've got money. Can _you_ afford hotel rooms?"

"Yeah," says Kurt, "I'm being paid to be at Avonroy, remember?"

I say, "By some theatre company, right?"

"Yeah," says Kurt, "And they're paying me quite a bit more than what I can possibly spend in a place like that. So I can afford it."

Something about that seems strange. "What kind of theatre company has that kind of money? You must be really good."

"They got a whole bunch of government grants that they had to use on training and development, and if they don't use the money, they have to give it back. So they're giving it to me."

"And that's legal?"

Kurt shrugs. "Absolutely. I just have to agree to work for them for at least a year after I graduate. Which is fine by me."

"Wow," I say. "You really must be good at what you do."

He nods. "Everyone at Avonroy is good at what they do, Blaine."

"Fair enough."

"So where do you get _your_ money?" Kurt asks, "Or is that another great mystery of Blaine that I don't get to know?"

I raise an eyebrow. "I don't think that there are very many mysteries left about me, Kurt. My money comes from my mother. My grandparents owned some huge chain of hotels in the Philippines, and Mom inherited a ton of money from them-which I inherited after she was gone."

"Wow," says Kurt, "So you're secretly like super rich?"

I shrug. "I guess. It's not really a secret."

"Nice. You're definitely a keeper then." He grins at me with a teasing wink.

I laugh.

Kurt says, "But yeah. Let's take our time going back to Avonroy. Deal?"

I agree. He kisses me and says, "Good. I'll tell Dad and Carole."

So we pack our things and say goodbye to Kurt's family. We're on the road again before noon.

As we leave Lima, I ask him, "So are we officially dating now?"

"I don't know?" Kurt says, glancing at me slowly. "Do you want to be officially dating?"

I say, "I don't know."

He looks a little hurt, but he hides it quickly. "What do you mean?"

I say, "I like you a lot. We've talked about that. You know that."

Kurt says, "I like you too."

I say, "I just still don't really understand what went on with you and Jeremy, and I… I mean, I just want to make sure that you're ready."

"I've told you," Kurt says, "It's over between me and Jeremy. He dumped me. He left. And I'm better off for it."

"But you got dumped, Kurt," I say, "And you got cheated on. And if you really think that that's okay, then I don't know if you're ready to be in a relationship."

He sighs, his face changing from slightly aloof avoidance to resigned determination. "Blaine, you were okay with it yesterday. You were okay with it three days ago. Why are you making this difficult?"

I shake my head. "I'm not making it difficult. I just care about you, and I'm trying to understand. You stayed with Jeremy even when he made you miserable. And I don't want that to happen to us."

Kurt straightens his back and shifts his hands on the steering wheel. He bites his lip. "I want you to trust me," he says, "And I think you need to know a bit more about Jeremy and about my relationship with him before you will. But at the same time, if I tell you too many of Jeremy's secrets, will you trust me to keep yours?"

As soon as he says it, I understand his dilemma. I say, "Kurt, whatever you tell me stays between us. And I know that you're not trying to betray Jeremy, but you're trying to help me. I do trust you. I just don't understand you."

He nods. "Okay. Just between us."

I feel the same sort of anticipation as I do when I'm about to watch a really good movie, and Kurt prepares to finally explain about Jeremy.

"I met Jeremy two and a half years ago when he had a role in one of the shows the theatre company I work for was doing. We started hooking up almost immediately."

I'd always assumed that Kurt and Jeremy had met at Avonroy. I don't say a word, afraid that I might spook him and he'll stop talking.

Kurt continues, "It was exclusively a physical relationship at first." He blushes slightly, but keeps talking. "We'd meet in the wardrobe room at work and mess around. We didn't really know anything about each other. And then one day, on the last night of the show he was in, he invited me on a real date. We went for dinner and talked about theater and life and whatnot, and then we went to my place to… you know."

I nod. He says, "And then when I woke up in the morning… he was gone. Since his show was over, I figured I'd probably never see him again."

I can just tell by the way his voice hovers in the air that this story is about to get dramatic.

"And then I got a call from a hospital. A nurse had found my number in Jeremy's phone; I was the only person he'd been in contact with for weeks, so she assumed we were close."

Grimacing, I ask, "What had happened?"

Kurt says, "After he'd left my apartment that night, he'd gone to his loft and tried to hang himself from the rafters."

I feel a little wave of shock. This is not what I'd been expecting at all. "Jesus _Christ_. Who found him?"

"His roommates. He was living with a whole bunch of other actors in this sketchy loft in Brooklyn. Someone heard something and went to investigate. They cut him down, called 911 and then got the fuck out of there."

"Fuck. They didn't even stick around to see if he was alright?"

Kurt shakes his head. "His roommates barely knew him, and they certainly didn't want to have to deal with that. So the nurse checked his phone andncalled me, and I didn't know what else to do, so I went to the hospital."

"Fucking hell. What a nightmare."

Shrugging, Kurt said, "So I helped him get back on his feet. I didn't really see a choice. It's not like I was just going to abandon the guy. He was so fucked up."

"Oh my god. And you barely knew him."

Nodding, Kurt says, "Yeah. But nobody knew him. He had nobody. And I was somebody. So I stayed with him. I helped him get his life together, and in the process, we fell in love."

"I'm still trying to wrap my head around a guy as cocky and self-obsessed actually being suicidal."

Kurt frowns uncomfortably. "I dunno, Blaine. The stuff you hate about Jeremy… the stuff that makes him seem like such a douche-bag… that's just Jeremy refusing to let other people make him miserable anymore."

I open my mouth to say something, but Kurt cuts me off. "I'm not saying that it's not a character flaw. I'm not saying that he's not an asshole. I'm just saying… He is the way he is for a reason."

"And I suppose you can't tell me how he got so fucked up."

Kurt doesn't respond for a moment, staring intently out of the windshield as we drive down the highway. "No," he says finally, "I'll tell you. I trust you to keep it to yourself."

"I will, I promise."

He says, "Jeremy had a twin brother who died when they were ten years old."

I remember Jeremy mentioning this to me weeks ago. "Right," I say, "He died of an asthma attack, huh?"

Kurt looks surprised and slightly impressed. "Jeremy told you about Simon?"

I say, "He mentioned it once after I had that asthma attack at his house during that storm. All he said was that he'd lost a brother to asthma."

Kurt says, "Well, Jeremy got ignored a lot as a kid, because he was the healthy one. Simon was so asthmatic that much of their parents time was spent managing his condition and taking care of him when he was sick. And Simon was very academically and athletically gifted, despite his illness, which made their parents very proud. Jeremy wasn't particularly gifted at anything. So he got ignored."

I know what it's like to be the least-liked son.

"And then Simon died, and suddenly all of the attention was on Jeremy. And nothing could stop them from comparing him to his dead twin brother. His mother couldn't deal with the loss of her son, and she packed up and left in the middle of the night when Jeremy was twelve. He hasn't seen her since."

Somehow I just know that this story is only going to get worse.

"And Jeremy's dad started drinking. A lot. And he was a mean drunk. He thought that Jeremy's love of theatre and music was girly and weird. I think you can see where this is going."

I nod silently.

Kurt says, "Jeremy's dad eventually forced him to admit that he was gay, and then things got ugly. Ugly and violent. Jeremy lived with the abuse until he was seventeen."

"And then what happened?"

"And then they got in a fight one night and his dad slammed him against a shelf. Jeremy grabbed a dictionary off of the shelf as he was falling, and thrust it at his father to try and get him to back off. It hit his dad in the head, ruptured an aneurism, and killed him."

I stare at Kurt with my jaw hanging open, stunned.

Kurt looks uncomfortable, and says, "Seriously, Blaine, this is between you and me. You can't tell anyone this. Even though it was self-defence and he couldn't be charged with anything, everyone in Jeremy's town considered him a murderer. He had to leave the state just to walk down a street and not be hissed at and have stuff thrown at him. I mean, can you imagine?"

I say, "I don't want to imagine. Fuck. Poor Jeremy."

"Yeah. And three years later, he was in New York, trying to get on with his life, but the guilt and the self-hate just ate him alive, so he decided to end it all. And that's where I came in."

"And you helped him get better."

Kurt says, "Jeremy says that I saved his life. But all I did was talk to him and show him that he was worthy of being loved. He in turn made me realize that I needed to stop just futzing around in NYC and start getting serious about a career. Because he was always serious about his acting career, even when everything else in his life was shit. So we eventually decided to come to Avonroy together so that we could give ourselves a real shot at starting over and having a real life together."

Now I just feel like an asshole, but I'm too caught up in Kurt's story to fully comprehend why.

I say, "So… so what happened? I mean, you saved his life? And then he goes and just cheats on you?"

Kurt says, "The beginning of our relationship was so intense and so passionate. We were so sure that we were each other's soul mate. Because we were each other's first loves. Because we'd been through something so significant together. And we'd learned so much from each other. But things change. We came to Avonroy, and Jeremy just… I don't know."

"He changed."

Biting his lip, Kurt says, "The thing is, I don't think he did. I think that Jeremy always was the guy he is. It's just that when he was broken and hurting and I was all he had, it was so much easier to overlook it. But by the time we got to Avonroy, Jeremy had healed enough and worked through his demons enough that he could thrive. In a place like Avonroy, where we're celebrated for our differences and admired for our talents… I mean, we all thrive there. I thrived too. And it just… it just turned out that Jeremy and I weren't right for each other once we were thriving.

"But you stayed together. For so long."

Nodding, Kurt says, "Yeah. Because of what we'd been through. Because he begged me not to leave him. Because when we were alone together, it still felt like old times. Because… it didn't seem right to give up on him when I knew he was still so fragile. Because he really does have a good heart, even if he's built his own system of morals that pisses everyone off. And I dunno. We just kept hanging on, even though it was wrong. When we finally broke up, we both agreed that it probably should have happened a year ago."

I look at Kurt, who is looking intently at the road before us. He's a very pretty boy. He's effeminate in a strong and willful sort of way, with so much poise and eloquence and the greatest fashion sense of all time. I've been attracted to him since the first time I lay eyes on him. And I've thought he was an idiot for being with Jeremy for almost as long. But now, hearing the real story behind his relationship with Jeremy, he suddenly seems like an entirely different person.

I don't know if I've ever respected someone so much in my life.

I say, "Wow. Just…"

He asks, "That's really all I have to say about it. You can decide for yourself whether you still want to be with me. I know that you might not want to be with me when I have a relationship like that in my very recent past, but I'm telling you… I'm ready to move on. And I really want it to be with you."

I'm a little bit afraid that anything between Kurt and I won't be able to match the intensity of him and Jeremy, but I want to try. Not only because I want to be with someone as compassionate and good as Kurt, but because I want Kurt to learn how to be in a relationship that isn't all about the other person. Kurt deserved to really be loved and cherished. And I want to be the one who does it.

I say, "Of course I want to be with you. How could I not? You are amazing, Kurt. Just promise me that if it stops working, we'll be honest with each other about it?"

Nodding, Kurt says, "I promise."

I kiss him on the cheek, and we cross out of Ohio and into Indiana.

* * *

**_Author's Note_**

_Hi everyone. Thank you again for your kind words about this story. Things got crazy for me this week with a new (and very exciting) job in a new city, so updates might be spaced out a lot more than before while I find a place to live here. I'm currently staying with old friends in a very very small apartment where I don't have internet or any place to be alone and write. Right now I'm really just trying to get my new life figured out, but I'll try to get story is finished eventually. Please be patient, and don't be afraid to badger me for updates; motivation is key. _


	40. This Love Thing

**Chapter Forty: This Love Thing**

Kurt and I are both very quiet as we make our way through Indiana and into Illinois. I'm thinking about Jeremy and trying to analyze every interaction I ever had with him to see if knowing his story makes me dislike the things he does any less.

I think on some level I've always respected Jeremy's complete lack of self-apology, but now I think I understand that respect a lot more.

Life is fucking unfair for everyone, when it comes down to it.

Everyone's got a sob story, and nobody actually knows what the fuck life is about, even the assholes like Jeremy who act like they believe they're God's greatest gift.

I've always had the very private opinion that my life has been hellish enough to justify some of my awful behaviour, but Jeremy's life has probably sucked more than mine, and I still hate him for _his_ awful behavior.

I think that Kurt probably deserves someone better than both me and Jeremy, but I also think that Kurt probably really likes being with complicated people. I think he probably can't wait to try to fix me the way he fixed Jeremy.

And that both terrifies and entices me.

"Let's just forget about the past and the future," I tell Kurt as we drive into Chicago, "Let's just let this road trip be about me and you in the right now."

Kurt jumps a little when I speak, but he smiles slowly as he absorbs my suggestion. "I like that," he says, "We can't let this get all clogged up with who we used to be before it even starts."

I add, "Nor with who we want to be. Let's just enjoy ourselves. We can figure everything else out when we get to Avonroy."

He pulls off the road and we check into a Chicago hotel. We eat a long dinner at the hotel restaurant over a conversation about our professors and classes at Avonroy, and then we get facials and massages in the hotel spa, and retire to our room where we cuddle and fool around until we fall asleep in each other's arms.

In the morning, we get back in the car and drive to Minneapolis, where we buy the first season of Downton Abbey on DVD and then marathon it in our hotel room. It's been so long since I watched, enjoyed, and felt invested in a TV show that for a moment I forget how television works and that I'm not living in England in the early 1900s.

We go to the Mall of America in the morning, and Kurt insists on picking out clothes for me to try on. He's got good taste, and his excitement over the whole process makes it way more enjoyable than shopping ever has been before.

At a restaurant in Fargo later in the day, Kurt asks me, "Do you think that I'm a stereotype?"

I raise an eyebrow, "What on earth do you mean?"

He says, "I dunno. Sometimes, I'm much too aware of the fact that I'm a gay man. I'm a gay man who loves everything that gay men are supposed to love. And sometimes I wonder if I like these things because I think I'm supposed to, or because I actually do."

Shaking my head, I say, "You like what you like, Kurt. Does it really matter why?"

"Easy for you to say," Kurt says, "You're not remotely stereotypical."

I say, "Well, maybe I _don't_ like the things gay people are "supposed" to like because I was always afraid of being stereotyped. Who knows? As long as we're happy with what our passions really are, does it matter?"

He says, "I guess not."

"You're your own person, Kurt. It's why I'm so attracted to you. So don't worry about it."

The waitress comes with our meals, and I can tell by the way she looks at us that she's trying to figure out if we're gay or not. It's been so long since I paid attention to that stuff that I get a weird, self-conscious shiver when her eyes pierce into mine.

When she leaves, Kurt says, "I was about to order wine, but I guess that wouldn't be fair to you. You don't drink."

I shrug. "That doesn't mean that you shouldn't."

He shakes his head and takes a bite of his salad.

I start eating my sandwich, and he starts talking about a museum in North Dakota that he wants to stop at.

After dinner, I ask him not to kiss me, because of the nuts in the salad he just ate. "Oh my god," he says, "I didn't even know you were allergic."

He refuses to let me come anywhere near him until he's washed his hands and face and brushed his teeth three times.

And then when we check into the hotel and I go to bed, he asks me, "Do you want a shoulder massage? You've got that pinched look again, like you're in pain."

I let him massage me, and then I let him do other things to me. Suddenly our clothes are off and the light are off and all of the built up attraction and longing from the past few months is finally being lived out.

I don't want to say that I used to be a slut or anything, but there definitely was a time in my life when I just really like to have sex, and I didn't really care who it was with.

The truth is that after I got beaten up, I didn't really trust the world not to hate me, so I looked for validation and acceptance in all the wrong places. I guess I probably thought that being physically intimate with someone meant that I had a relationship with them, so I couldn't be lonely and I wasn't being rejected.

But anyway, now that I'm sober and I'm trying to be a better Blaine, sex means a lot more and feels a lot better than it ever has before. And I don't even think that it has a lot to do with the fact that I'm a twenty-two-year-old guy who's been celibate for almost a year.

Kurt has a great body and he's compassionate enough to know how to use it for something better than simple physical pleasure. It's tender and sensual and caring and extremely intense.

And because I think I might be falling in love with him, I'm left feeling satisfied and blissful when it's over and we're left just cuddling. I've never in my life felt like this after sex before.

I'm doing my very very very best not to let this whole love thing freak me right the fuck out.

What if I start to make him miserable, and I'm too much of an asshole to notice?

But our deal is not to think about anything but right now, and right now, I feel like I might understand happy and fulfilled people. Kurt smells nice. His hair is insanely soft. And he's warm. Comfortable.

I think this whole love thing might actually be a thing.

* * *

_A/N: Okay, I'm back. Sorry for the wait, and thanks for hanging in there if you did. _

_I know most of you are reading this because of Klaine and not to hear about my life, but for those who've asked, my new job is beyond wonderful (it's a government technical writing job and exactly what I needed at this point in my career), my new apartment is divine (I'd been living in that awful semi-homeless couch-surfing limbo for a couple of months after I'd let go of my lease on my old apartment for a job offer that ended up falling through), and the new city I'm in is fantastic (twice as big as where I was living before, and way closer to the mountains for skiing). _

_I finally have Internet and a little spare time to focus on writing again, so I'll try to start updating as much as I can again. I do have an outline for a new story that I desperately want to start writing, but I'm trying to force myself to finish this one first so that it doesn't get abandoned for newer, shinier ideas. There's still a lot that needs to happen before this story will be complete, so do kick me in the shins if I get distracted from it. _


	41. I've Become a Person

**Chapter Forty-One: I've Become a Person**

We get back to Avonroy the night before classes start, and Kurt and I curl up together in his bed. It's a single bed suspended in the rafters, so it feels like either one of us could fall to our death at any minute, but we're both too giddy with the realization that we live together to care.

It isn't until I'm back in class on Monday morning that Holly's absence really hits me. She's still in Hawaii and we haven't been able to communicate since she's been gone. It feels weird enough that she doesn't know about Kurt and me yet. Sitting in class without here is even weirder.

It's strange to think that while I've been starting my relationship with Kurt, Holly has probably been restarting hers with Paul. I don't think either of would have dreamed that this would happen when we met four months ago.

Sometimes I feel like I've known Holly my whole life, and then I remember that it really only has been four months, and I think I might be crazy to have shared so much of myself with her.

And then I remember how much of myself I've shared with Kurt in the last month alone, and I get goose bumps on my arms.

Somehow I've become a person who talks to people.

At any rate, Avonroy just feels different this term.

I get my marks back from exams, and I've received perfect scores on everything. I'm still grinning about it when Steve, one of Jeremy's old roommates, pulls me aside after class.

"Kurt just told me about your musical, and I'm totally in. Do you have a script?"

I'm still thinking about my exam marks and Holly and I have no idea what he's talking about. And then it hits me. "Oh!" I say, "Uh… the musical. Right. You really want to do it?"

Steve, who is a lot taller than me and tries very hard to make the fact that he's a complete nerd cool. In an odd, endearingly awkward way, he pulls it off. He says, "Blaine, it's an awesome concept. If we can pull it off, it's going to be brilliant. Kurt and I just put our names in for the Collab Fest, so you can't back out now. We're doing it."

Taken aback, I say, "You _entered_? Oh my god, we really have to do this now, huh?"

Steve says, "I'm a composition major. When you have a script or even an outline and some ideas for lyrics and songs, we can meet, and start trying to build a score. So keep me updated, okay?"

I almost have tears in my eyes, thinking about the fact that this idea has no choice but to actually come to fruition now. "Okay," I tell Steven, "I'm going to get to work on it right away. Thank you so much for agreeing to this."

He shrugs. "I'm thrilled to be asked."

He leaves to get to his next class, and I go to meet Kurt for a picnic dinner in our dorm room.

"So you actually went and entered us in the contest, huh?"

He gives me a sly, slightly guilty grin. "Yeah. Are you mad?"

I shrug. "No. I'm excited. But we're going to need actors."

"One step at a time," says Kurt. "Write the script. Get Steve going on the music. We'll hold auditions once we have something people will want a role in."

"Do you really think people will volunteer?"

Rolling his eyes, Kurt says, "Of course they will. Actors at this school will fight for roles in anything. And our show is going to be _good_. You'll see."

I gulp. "I just hope I can do it justice."

He pulls me closer and kisses my nose. "I'm nosy enough to know that you're a brilliant writer, Blaine. It's going to be great."

I raise an eyebrow. "You've read my stuff?"

"You leave your assignments on your desk sometimes. I have no boundaries. Does it bother you?"

"Yeah," I say, "It feels like a violation… but somehow I don't mind at all."

He grins. "Hide your stuff better if you really want it private. Otherwise I'm not going to be able to stop myself. You'll just have to get used to that. Sorry."

Shrugging, I say, "Fair enough."

He says, "Also, Steve really is a great composer, and I know that you've got great musical sensibilities anyway, so the music will be good too. People will want to be in this show."

I say, "Okay. But if I'm going to write a musical and finish my novel and all of my other assignments this term, you're going to have to put up with me not being chained to my computer most of the time."

"It's fine," he says, "I'm coordinating sets for the main stage production of Spring Awakening. I'll be busy too. The lucky thing is that we already live together, so we'll still see each other."

I get shivers down my spine. I've never lived with a boyfriend before.

Weird.

"We'll have date nights," He says, "Once a week, no matter what. To have time together outside of our dorm room. We have to have some time when we're actually just focusing on us."

I say, "I like that idea. Because I'm sorry, but it's weird to start off a relationship already living together. I guess it could be easy to get lazy about spending time together."

He nods. "The whole reason I'm living in dorms this year and I didn't move into that house with Steve and Jeremy and Trevor and them is that I wanted to make sure that my time with him remained special and didn't become routine. Only then I ended up spending practically every night there, so it didn't really work. Still. We'll have date nights."

I say, "Okay. Date nights. Cool."

He kisses me. "Cool."


	42. Anderson is a Common Name

**Chapter Forty-Two: Anderson is a Common Name**

Kurt and I quickly fall into a routine in our new relationship, but the routine doesn't leave much time for my coursework. I fall behind in most of my classes as I spend every moment I don't spend with Kurt working on the script for the musical, which I have titled _Soundtrack. _

By the middle of January, the first draft of the script is finished, and every time I finally find a way to focus on anything else, I have another idea for how to improve the dialogue or add new height to the humor and new depth to the emotion. I find myself writing ideas on my arms and going out of my way to get access to a computer to edit the script.

"Are you ever going to actually let me read it?" asks Kurt as he puts the finishing touches on his dramatic hairstyle for our movie date tonight.

I look up from my laptop guiltily and say, "It's not ready yet. Soon. Very soon."

"Good," he says, "Because Steve wants to start working on music, and I've got to get started on sets and costumes if we're actually going to be able to stage this thing by April."

I nodded. "Don't worry. It's nearly there. I just have to… make it right."

"I'm sure it's already fantastic."

"It's not right yet. Soon."

Kurt rolls his eyes and adds a thick cloud of hairspray to the room, cementing his hairstyle and sending me into a fit of coughing.

"Aw sweetie!" Kurt puts down his hairspray and turns to me with concern. "Are you okay?"

I roll my eyes and nod, choking back the coughing. "Fine."

"Do you need your inhaler?"

I shake my head, smiling slightly. Kurt really likes having someone to take care of, so any time I show the slightest sign of weakness, he tries to find a way to help me. It's incredibly comforting and also kind of embarrassing. "I'm good to go. Are you ready?"

Kurt nods, passing me my jacket. "The movie starts in twenty minutes. We'd better hurry."

I follow him out to his car. "You look fantastic tonight. I think I'd better start making more of an effort."

"Nonsense," says Kurt as we buckle our seatbelts, "You always look hot. The scruffy writer look suits you."

I laugh. "Good. Because I have no desire to make more of an effort."

We drive into town, and I start reworking a scene from _Soundtrack _in my head while he buys our movie tickets and I buy our popcorn.

I don't even realize what movie we're seeing until Natalie Portman appears on the screen in front of me, and the name _Cooper Anderson_ is credited second as the movie opens.

Holy fucking shit.

I spill some of the popcorn into my lap as I give a slightly horrified start. This is my brother's movie.

Kurt laughs and brushes the popcorn off of my lap, kissing me on the cheek.

Cooper's first scene is five minutes into the movie, and his character shirtless and training for a triathlon. Kurt points up at the screen and turns to me. For a fraction of an instant, I think he knows that Cooper is my brother, but then he says, "What else is that guy in? He looks so familiar."

I shrug. "Uh… he's in _Peregrination_."

Cooper's TV show has been airing for ten years, so of course Kurt recognises his face.

"Right," says Kurt, "Right."

I could tell Kurt that Cooper is my brother, but I'm too fascinated by what I'm seeing on the screen.

I stopped watching _Peregrination_ years ago, when my anger at my brother outweighed my brotherly pride at his success. It's been a long time since I admitted to myself the fact that my brother's talent deserves every moment of success it has earned him.

For brief moments throughout the movie, even I forget that that man on the screen isn't actually Natalie Portman's triathlete love interest, but a douche-bag from Ohio called Cooper Anderson.

But when I do remember that that's my brother up there, I get extremely angry.

He is so fucking talented. And such a fucking asshole. How is it that he can just be up there on the movie screen, being talented and getting famous and making people laugh? How can he be so present in the consciousness of every person in this theater when he's so completely absent in my life?

Cooper has made it pretty clear that his feelings towards me echo the feelings that our Dad has. We haven't had any contact since before Mom died, despite my many desperate calls and emails before the funeral, begging him to talk Dad into letting me attend.

I wonder what it would do to his career if people know how he treated his own flesh and blood.

I wonder what life would be like if he'd been the gay one.

I bet there are tons of interviews out there with him, and I bet he's never once mentioned a brother.

I bet Dad is unbelievably fucking proud.

When I was a kid and Cooper was still living at home, I used to idolize him. I followed him around wherever he went, and he never once complained. I think he liked being a role model. He's ten years older than I am, and I think he appreciated having a cute little kid tagging along to attract girls. He and I used to perform music together at church and community events all the time. Everyone said we were precious.

Cooper moved out when I was seven, but we remained close until he got cast on _Peregrination_ and became too busy and obsessed with his career to make time for his family across the country.

After I came out, Cooper didn't disown me like Dad, but he didn't support me like Mom either. He tried his damnedest to save me from the devil. He tried to enroll me in Christian gay-to-straight conversion programs, he sent me bible verses religious anti-gay books, and he made sure I never once forgot what a sacrifice it was for him and Mom to maintain contact with me.

I wonder what Hollywood would do if they knew how closed-minded, conservative, and religious Cooper really is. I wonder how he balances his ridiculous belief system with his acting career. I wonder if he talks about it in interviews.

I've ignored Cooper's career for a long time, but as I watch this movie, I suddenly want to know everything he's ever told the press. Who do people think he is?

Who does _he_ think he is?

Cooper's character kisses Natalie Portman's character, and Kurt squeezes me hand. He's way into this movie.

Even I am pretty invested in the story playing out before me on the screen.

This movie is very good.

I could tell Kurt that Cooper is my brother. We could talk about all of my unresolved resentment towards Cooper. He could tell me that Cooper is an asshole and he could console me and he could spend the rest of his life hating an actor who is probably about to be a pretty big deal.

But I am so tired to having emotional heart-to-hearts about my dark and twisty past. I am tired of giving Kurt reasons to pity me and tell me how strong I am. Whoever this actor on the screen is, he stopped being my brother a long time ago. Why should it matter what he used to mean to me? At this moment, he's just an actor in a heartwarming movie.

I need to move on just like I'm very sure Cooper has.

So I let Kurt think I'm crying because the movie is beautiful, and I let him marvel at how good-looking Cooper Anderson is, and I don't think it's deceitful or withholding, because it really doesn't matter. Who my brother is has nothing to do with who I am or how I feel about Kurt.

My relationship with Kurt has to be about us right now. I'm not going to bog it down with more of my crap from way back when.

So we go out to dinner, and the fact that I share a last name with the lead actor in the movie we just watched is never mentioned. Anderson is a common name. There's no reason for Kurt to suspect.

I forget about it entirely as I enjoy the rest of our date, and I don't think about it again until we're back in our dorm room, lying in his bed and drifting off to sleep.

And somehow, after years of resentment and anger, I forgive Cooper. His beliefs and attitude toward me are a product of his upbringing and his commitment to his faith, and I can't fault him for it any more than I can fault myself for believing that his beliefs are bullshit. I don't need a big brother to move on and be happy with my life.

I fall asleep thinking about the movie's beautiful love story and hoping that Kurt and I can build a life together with a story as beautiful as that.


	43. I Hate It

**Chapter Forty-Three: I Hate It **

When I finally surrender my script to Kurt's scrutiny, he reads in all in one sitting and then stares at me wordlessly and expressionlessly for a long time.

"Well?" I finally prompt him, skin crawling from the way his eyes are raking across me.

He sets down the script and gives me a long hug. "I hate it," he says.

It feels a little bit like everything inside of me is crumbling.

"I hate it because makes me feel things that I'd rather not feel."

Okay then.

"It's too honest. It's too… insightful. It makes… it makes me realize a lot of things that make me really uncomfortable with humanity."

He pauses, still staring intensely at me.

I say, "So you hate it."

"I hate it," he agrees, "It's disturbing. It's… it's not what I expected."

"I realize it's a little… dark, but I wasn't trying to write a comedy. It's _supposed_ to make you feel something. That's the whole point."

I'm starting to wonder just how much of my insanity is evident in the script. There's something extremely unsettling about the way Kurt is watching me.

"I know," says Kurt quietly, "I'm not saying that it's bad. It's actually extremely good. It's funny, it's haunting, it's gripping, it's devastating, it's profound… it's _beautiful_, Blaine. It's _scary_ beautiful. It might be the best thing I've ever read. I still hate it."

I can't make sense of how he's feeling or how what he's saying is making me feel. It has taken a lot of difficult emotional work for me to be ready to write this story, and now the man I think I love hates it.

"So what does that mean?" I ask, "Should I rewrite it?"

"No!" Kurt says quickly, looking at me with what looks like panic in his eyes, "It's perfect. Don't change a thing. It's a masterpiece. I'm terrified that me and Steve and all of the talent at Avonroy won't be able to help you do it justice, but I guarantee you that any person who reads this script is going to want to try. It's phenomenal."

"But you hate it."

"That's a good thing, Blaine. I don't hate things easily. It takes a lot of talent to make me feel anything strongly enough to hate. Send the script to Steve. Once you add music to this, you are going to have a extremely powerful weapon on your hands. And I will do everything I can to help you weild that weapon effectively."

I shift nervously. "Do you think everyone will hate it?"

"I think that everyone who experiences this story is going to be confronted with some difficult questions and realizations that will definitely be upsetting. But most people like that kind of thing."

"But you don't."

"I don't like it when I expect to be entertained and end up having to shift my perspectives and restructure my priorities instead."

"Well, fuck, Kurt. It's just a musical. Don't be so dramatic. You're scaring me."

He shakes his head. "You should be scared. This thing is scary. Be careful with it, okay? Don't compromise it for anything. We have to do this right."

He's pale and looks almost clammy, and if it's my writing that did that to him, then a very cruel, self-centered part of me is beyond delighted.

"I'll send the script to Steve. If it freaks him out too much too… maybe I'll keep it to myself for a while longer."

Kurt nods.

* * *

_A/N Short chapter I know, but more is soon to come. Thanks for reading despite my inconsistent updating. It's difficult for me to stay true to the characters and ideas I developed before my life got turned entirely upside down (in an unexpected but constructive way), but I feel like I owe it to these characters to finish their story, so I'll keep chipping away at until the end. Thanks for the reviews and favorites and all the support. xoxo _


	44. Pure Fucking Gold

**Chapter Forty-Four: Pure Fucking Gold**

I give Steve a script with very specific instructions about my vision for the music. I know exactly where the music needs to be and why, and I know exactly what the lyrics of the songs have to accomplish. I know what I want, and I'm terrified that Steve will be too disturbed by my script to help me get it.

But when we meet in a practice room for our first writing session, Steve, who has no sense of social inhibition, practically jumps me with his excitement. "I've been up all night composing," he says, "This show is going to be _fucked up_. Unbelievable. Blaine, this show could _make_ my career. The opportunity to compose for a show this fucking brilliant? Fucking _stellar_."

I couldn't help but grin at his enthusiasm. "I know it's a little… dark."

"A little? Jesus Christ, Blaine. It's dark as fuck. It's so dark it glows _golden_. Pure fucking gold. I can't express who much I love it. This thing is going to _fuck_ with people's _heads_." He shivers and bounces a little. "Fantastic."

I smile wordlessly at him.

He leads me into a tiny, sound-proofed practice room with a piano in the corner, and he takes a seat at the piano bench.

"So. The music. I've pulled out some of my most sacredly savoured shit for this. I've been waiting forever to find a canvas worthy of painting with the paint of this score. I think it's perfect. As an overall theme for background music, I mean. The songs themselves will be woven into it. Now, I'm not a lyricist, but I think you've got that covered, right?"

"Yeah," I say, "I've got visions. We just need the music first. So show me what you've got."

So Steve talks through the entire plot of my play, which he seems to have nearly memorized in the twenty-four hours since I gave him the script. As he talks through it, his fingers dance across the piano, breathing a new, twisted and powerful life into the story with the music he creates.

He corrects himself and plays around with different melodies and chords as he explores the story on the piano, but before he's halfway through, I know that Steve is the perfect composer to tackle this musical. The way he weaves music through my story is effortless, as though music and emotion are inseparable in his being.

It's after midnight before I realize how long we've been writing together.

"Damn," says Steve. "It's late. But this is great. You're good, Blaine. It's cool to work with a writer who actually understands music. I'm used to composing with playwrights who've never touched a piano."

I shrug. "In another life, I think I could have been a musician."

"Oh, you are a musician," Steve says, "You couldn't have written a script so perfectly suited to becoming a musical if you weren't. I have classmates with weaker relationships to music than you have."

Smiling, I say, "Okay. Let's not get carried away. You're going to give me an ego."

"Well, Avonroy is rather lack of ego since Jeremy left."

I laugh. "No shit."

Steve shrugs. "Fuck, I miss that asshole. Has Kurt heard from him?"

I shrug, feeling suddenly defensive, "Not that he's mentioned to me."

"Hmm." Steve starts stacking up his music. "Weird. Jer really isn't the type to just leave."

I say, "Well, I'm not sorry he did. Does that make me an asshole too?"

Steve shrugs. "You and Kurt make a lot more sense than Kurt and Jer did. I'm glad you two are together. I'm glad those two aren't dragging each other down anymore. I just wish it didn't have to mean that Jer was gone for good."

"I hope it's not my fault."

"Don't flatter yourself," laughed Steve. "Jer never lets anyone else's opinions or actions affect his decisions. Trust me."

I've always suspected that Steve was one of the people that Jeremy cheated on Kurt with, and the way Steve talks about Jeremy furthers my suspicions. And still somehow, it doesn't make me think less of Steve. Because Steve is unapologetically Steve, and I feel sad for him that his friend and roommate and possible lover has left.

"Are you guys managing the rent on that house alright without Jeremy?"

Shrugging, Steve says, "We're still figuring that out. I think our friend Rita is gunna move in to Jeremy's old room. Her roommate dropped out, and she's lonely. Unless you and Kurt are interested?"

The thought of living in the same room where Jeremy used to hold Kurt emotionally hostage is atrocious to me. I shudder a little. "No thank you."

Steve nods. "Fair enough. You guys should come over more often though. We're having a karaoke party this weekend. You should come show us all up again."

I laugh, and say, "Thanks, but I'm going to visit a friend this weekend. I'll make sure Kurt knows it's happening though."

Holly has invited me to Whitefish for the weekend, and I can't wait to meet Paul and judge for myself if her choice to leave Avonroy was a good one.

"Fair enough," says Steve. "Well, we've got about two months before we have to have this show ready to present to the festival council. I think we could present it tomorrow and get the funding, but I'd rather do it right and knock it out of the park. So I'm going to take a couple of weeks to build a good foundation for the music, and then we can meet again, okay? I think this meeting has given me a clear picture of what you want. Now I just need to work."

I nodded. "I'll continue tweaking the script. I don't think it'll ever be perfect, but I know that it can be better. And Kurt is already working on set designs. If we can get the funding, it'll be gorgeous."

"We'll get the funding," Steve assures me, "And I think we should try to get professional producers on board after the festival. This show could be a sensation."

I smile. "One thing at a time, Steve. I should go home."

He nods. "Yeah. Me too. Thanks again for including me in this."

"Thanks for agreeing to help.

We go home, and my heart is still racing as the haunting and almost magnetically memorable melodies Steve has created swim through my thoughts. The fact that this random idea I had so many weeks ago is blooming into a tangible piece of art that could potentially impact other people is incredible. This is what being a writer is about. This feeling is a hundred times more satisfying than drugs or applause ever were.

A year ago today, I overdosed on heroin and landed in intensive care barely alive. Tomorrow, I can celebrate twelve months clean and sober, knowing that I've built more than sobriety over the last year. I've built a life and relationships and ambitions and some self-understanding. I don't care if people don't like Soundtrack; I like it, and I like the way it feels to like something I created, and that's all that really matters at this moment.


	45. There will be no Secrets

**Chapter Forty-Five: There will be no Secrets**

"I wasn't going to bring this up," Kurt says out of nowhere one night while I'm trying to finish writing an argument for my rhetoric class, and I think he's fast asleep, "But it's driving me crazy, so I have to ask."

I jump a little and turn around to see him sitting on the edge of his bed, looking down at me. "What do you have to ask?"

He comes down from his bed and sits on his desk chair, facing me. "Cooper Anderson," he says, "The actor."

My heart does a strange little quiver-not out of dread or panic or anything, but just out of whatever emotion coincides with your boyfriend knowing you better than you think.

"What about him?" I ask.

Kurt asks, "How are you related to him?"

I raise an eyebrow. "What makes you think I am?"

Rolling his eyes, Kurt says, "His last name is Anderson, and he's from Westerville, Ohio, Blaine, and from the sound of his interviews, he's just as religious as you say your family is. And you were being way too weird the night we saw that movie for those clues not to mean something."

"Yeah," I say, "Cooper's my brother."

Kurt nods. "Brother. Okay. And you never thought it would be a good idea to tell me this?"

I shrug. "Cooper being my brother isn't really important. He's not a part of my life right now."

Kurt sits over the edge of his bed again and says, "I get it. It still must have been hard for you to see him in a movie."

"Sort of," I say, "But not as much as I'd have thought. He's a great actor and he chose a great movie to be a part of. I can't let myself dwell on who he used to be to me. I just enjoyed the movie. Because he's not my brother anymore. And I think we're both better off."

"Oh come on," says Kurt, "It cannot be that easy. You're overrationalizing."

I think that Kurt want me to get emotional and I think he wants to be able to help heal me, but the truth is that I really don't think I'm broken in this instant.

"Look," I say, "I'd be lying if I said that I haven't been angry at Cooper, and that his success hasn't infuriated me, but that anger has been selfish. I have to respect the choices that Cooper has made in regards to our relationship. He shared my dad's belief that my sexuality meant that I was going to hell, but rather than disown me like Dad did, he tried to save me. And as wrong as I know it is for him to have believed that he could convert me to heterosexuality, he did it because he loved me and he believed in something. How can you fault someone for their faith?"

Kurt says, "Having faith doesn't excuse ignorance and intolerance, Blaine."

"Maybe not," I say, "But it makes it understandable. To me, anyway. Anyway, we haven't had any contact since Mom died. I'm sure he blames me for her death."

Looking outraged, Kurt says, "That's not fair!"

"Yeah," I say, "It's fair. From his perspective, it's very fair. But it's not important."

"Well," Kurt says, "I think that it is important. You're never going to fully come to terms with your mother's death if you really believe that your own brother is justified in blaming you for her death. Because that means that you believe that you _are_ responsible."

"I am responsible," I say, "I am responsible for my mother's death. I've talked to you about this before. The sacrifices that she made because of _my_ sexual orientation and _my_ choices are what killed her. I understand that, and I accept that."

Kurt starts to say something, but I interrupt him.

"I have enough self-esteem to understand that being responsible for something doesn't make you at fault. I can't change who I am. I can't change who my family is. If I was my brother, and I believed what my brother believed, I would hate me for what happened to my mom. So I can't be too angry at him for cutting me out of his life. Not if the alternative would be remaining in contact with a man who will make me feel constantly guilty and probably never be able to accept who I am or forgive me for my 'sins'."

Kurt comes down and hugs me. I appreciate the gesture, but I feel like he needs the hug more than I do. He needs to feel like this conversation has helped me. And I guess I need to make him feel better about the fact that I wasn't honest with him two weeks ago.

So we hug, and then he goes back to sleep, and I keep trying to finish my homework.

So I guess with Kurt, there will be no secrets. And I guess that's a good thing.


	46. I can be Happy with Uncertainty

**Chapter Forty-Six: I can be Happy with Uncertainty**

The town that Holly grew up in is a three hour drive from Avonroy, and it's very charming. Holly is living in a condo just off of Main Street with Paul.

Paul isn't really what I've been picturing. I knew that Paul had overcome serious drug problems and left a small town to get a college education, which should have impressed me. But I also knew that he'd hooked up with Holly every time he'd seen her since high school, despite refusing to commit to her until she got sober.

I know that Holly was never successful in getting sober until she let go of her fantasy of marrying Paul and came to Avonroy to start pursuing a life of her own. And until she met me and realized that there were other men out there.

If she couldn't stay sober for him for the last five years, why is it going to be different now?

And what kind of guy is okay with letting his woman give up on pursuing her dreams just so that she can be with him?

So I'd been expecting him to be either a complete asshole or a complete angel, because I figured that those were the only two kinds of guys who could have gotten a girl like Holly so wrapped around his finger.

But Paul is neither an asshole or an angel. He's just a guy.

He's average looking, with that colorless once-blonde shade of brown hair, black glasses, and the last vestiges of acne scarring on his chin, bright, optimistic eyes, and a shy but easily prompted smile. He greets me cautiously, as though Holly has warned him that I'll probably be looking for a reason not to like him.

"Nice to meet you," he says, "I've heard all about you from Holly."

"You too," I tell him, and he and Holly invite me into their condo.

Paul seems like a very average guy with very average interests. He works at the ski resort up the road from the town as a marketing coordinator, he's got an extensive collection of DVDs and video, and he's a little nervous and awkward, but I can tell that he'd have a great sense of humor if he were relaxed.

I get the feeling that Paul was the kind of guy who got into drugs young because he didn't fit in anywhere, and getting high gives you the freedom not to give a shit. But he'd grown up and moved on.

Holly, on the other hand, got into drugs because she couldn't cope with the world, and I really hope that Paul can help her cope now that she's clean.

But Holly does seem happy, and she informs me happily that she hasn't had a cigarette since she left Avonroy.

"Congrats," I say, hugging her, "I'm proud of you. We miss you at Avonroy."

Nodding with a slightly guilty look on her face, Holly says, "I know. But I'm finally sleeping again. I never realized how stressed out I was there until I left. And I can relax again."

I can see that there's a difference in her, and if it's that she feels more comfortable and safe, then I know I should respect that.

Holly has repeatedly told me that there's no way I can understand social anxiety unless I've experienced it, but in a way, I think I get it. Campuses like Avonroy just aren't built for people like Holly.

"I'm writing again too," she says, "I mean like _really _writing. Not like at Avonroy. I'm not writing because I have to. It's not to meet assignment requirements. It's writing because I want to. And it's wonderful."

I don't know what Holly thinks her future holds if she only wants to write the things she wants to write, but I guess that's for her to figure out, not me.

Paul goes to meet some buddies for a day of skiing at the resort he works at. He invites me to join him, but I've never been skiing before in my life, and I don't know if my shoulder would appreciate the cold weather and inevitable falling over.

So Holly and I hang out in the condo talking for most of the day.

"You're really sure that this is what you want?" I ask, trying to get an honest read on what is going through Holly's head.

She nods. "Yeah," she says, "Right now, this is what I want. I dunno, Blaine. I'm happy. Paul and I… we just work, you know? He gets me. I get him."

"But there has to be more to life than the boy, Holly. Are you happy in Whitefish? Being alone here all day while he works? What's your plan?"

She shakes her head. "I'm fine, Blaine. I told you; I'm writing. I know that you need to have purpose and drive and all that to feel fulfilled, but I honestly just enjoy the process of writing and the comfort of feeling safe and loved in the place that I live. I've got good friends here. I've got family here. For the first time in a very long time, I can be around the people I love without feeling guilty and dirty and like I'm a failure. I'm clean and I'm home and I'm finally starting to understand that life isn't actually that complicated."

I think that life is extremely complicated, and I know that Holly can see that opinion in my eyes as she tells me this. "Blaine…" she smiles at me. "The truth is that not everyone's life is as dramatic as yours is."

"I wouldn't call my life dramatic," I say.

She rolls her eyes. "It is," she says, "That's who you are. You _feel_ things, and you thrive on _experience,_ and you search constantly for a way to define and achieve _success_. You have _opinions_ about things, and you _analyse_ the crap out every detail of every decision you make. I love that about you. But the world isn't like that for me. I can be happy with uncertainty and aimlessness as long as I feel secure."

"But if you could never stay sober in Whitefish before, why is it different now?"

Holly crosses her arms defensively. "Jesus, Blaine. It's like you _want _me to fail. Things are different now. Paul is back. Karin and I have reconciled. And most importantly, I've finally figured out who I am and why I lost myself for so long. And _you_ helped me with that."

"How did I help?"

She says, "You came to Avonroy with all of these stories about horrors in your past, but you were so… _in tune_ with your thoughts and opinions. You always have an answer-an explanation-a rationalization-for every one of your problems. You don't ignore things; you make peace with them-or at the very least, you find a way to understand things so that you can _try_ to make peace with them."

I say, "And how does that help _you_?"

Holly runs a hand through her hair, sweeping it off of her face. "You taught me to slow down and get to know myself. To start trying to find the root of my problems instead of just pushing them out of my way. I've tried to talk to you about this before, but you're so sure that I'm making a mistake that you won't listen."

"I'm listening," I say.

She says, "I know that it might be a little insensitive to talk to _you_ about how hard it is to grow up in a world that wants to change you, but I guess I can't apologize for not being you. The fact is that from a very young age, I was taught that it wasn't okay to be introverted and shy. Schools rewarded the kids who participated in class discussions and excelled in group work, and they punished kids like me who sat on the sidelines and listened. It didn't matter that I learned just as much if not more than the other kids; I wasn't learning it their way, so I was punished."

I'd never even considered how unfair that system of schooling is until now, and I open my mouth to tell her so, but she cuts me off.

"So from as early as _kindergarten_, I was under the impression that my personality type was the _wrong_ personality type. That I had to change who I was if I wanted to be successful. Except that trying to be involved in social situations made me physically ill with anxiety."

I try again to say something, but she keeps talking.

"And _of course_ my anxiety is a problem; it's a disorder. But if I didn't feel constantly pressured to step outside of my comfort zones and make myself miserable trying to function in a world built for extroverts, maybe that disorder wouldn't have ever manifested. And I'm _done_ trying to conform to what the world wants me to do. If I can stay in my hometown and live a life that doesn't scare the hell out of me, I'm going to do it."

"You don't think that challenging yourself is a good thing?"

She looks like she wants to slap me. "Extroverts aren't asked to challenge themselves into being introverts. Why should I? Pushing myself to be social makes me miserable, pushes me into drugs, and builds so much self-hate inside of me that I actually get dizzy. It's just not worth it. I don't expect you to understand it, but please; respect it. I need you to accept that I've made this choice for a reason, and I'm happy."

She's so self-defensive and earnest that I can't feel anything but guilt. If Holly's happy, I have to be happy for her. And I think, seeing her here, I actually am happy for her. It's just going to take some getting used to the idea that happiness can mean something so entirely different for her as it does for me.

I nod, giving her a long hug. "Just never see the time you spent at Avonroy as a mistake. Because you saved me more than you know, and I've seen you evolve _so much_. Maybe Avonroy wasn't right for you, but I hope you're glad you went."

Holly kisses my cheek and pulls back to study my face for a moment, smiling in a tranquil sort of way that I've never seen from her before. "Thanks, Blaine," she says, "I needed to hear that. Avonroy will always be a special memory for me; mostly because of you. Promise we'll be friends forever?"

I nod. "Of course. You and Kurt are all I've got."


End file.
